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NAPOLEON FALLEN 



NAPOLEON FALLEN 



31 Usrwal ^ranrn 






By ROBERT BUCHANAN 




STRAIIAN & CO., PUBLISHERS 

56 LUDGATE HILL, LONDON 

1871 



'Mi 



LONDON : 

PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO., 

CITY ROAD. 



TO THE PROPHETS AND MARTYRS. 

O Prophets ! that look forward, searching slow 
The future time for signs, what see ye there ? 

What far-off gleams of portent come and go ? 

On what, with lips like quivering leaves, and hair 
Back-blowing in the whirlwind, do ye stare 

So steadfast and so still ? O speak, and tell — 

Is the Soul safe ? Shall the sick world be well ? 
Will morning glimmer soon, and all be fair ? 

Martyrs ! all ye see this day is sad, 

And in your eyes there swim the fatal tears, 
But on your brows the Dawn gleams cold and hoar. 

1 too gaze forward, and my heart grows glad — 

I catch the comfort of the golden years — 
I see the Soul is safe for evermore. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



In reading this Napoleonic Play, or Lyrical 
Drama, or Dramatic Poem (I know not which 
is the fit title), it should be remembered 
that we lack as yet the proper foreground 
for the contemplation of the chief character. 
Fortunately, the subject, if treated with any 
ordinary skill, will be always gaining instead 
of losing that artistic distance which many 
think so necessary; while, on the other hand, 
it is likely to secure certain elements of real 
strength from the mere fact of its being based 
on contemporary events. Of course, it is 
more than ordinarily open to abuse, for ardent 
politicians who would let me have my own 



Vlll PREFATORY NOTE. 

way with Tiberius or Peter the Great, or even 
Bonaparte, are certain to rate me roundly if I 
disagree with them about Louis Napoleon. 

The man who here soliloquises may not be 
the real Napoleon, but I believe there is some 
justification for my portrait. After all, truth 
is one thing, and dramatic truth is another. 
If my play possess verisimilitude, no critic 
has a right to object to it because he himself 
would have conceived the chief character 
differently. 

One final word. I desire to say that I have 
nowhere in the following pages expressed my 
own political opinions. 

Robert Buchanan. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN 



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Soph. (Ed. Tvr. 



SPEAKERS. 



Napoleon III. of France. 

An Officer of the Imperial Staff. 

A Roman Catholic Bishop. 

A Physician. 

Messengers. 

First German Citizen. 

Second German Citizen. 

German Citizen's Wife. 

Chorus of Republicans. 

Chorus of Spirits. 



Scene — The Chateau of Wilhelmshohe, in Cassel. 
Time — 1870, shortly after the surrender of Sedan. 



*** There are certain obvious anachronisms in time. That 
the news of the fall of Rome and the proclamation of the 
French republic, only reaches Wilhelmshohe about the same 
time as the news of the environment of Paris, is a dramatic 
expedient, necessary to the action of the drama, which begins at 
sunset and ends late the same night. 



ERRATA. 

Page 49, last line but one, for " Weisseroberg," read " Weis- 

senburg." 

Page 51, line 1, read 

" While Trochu, from the presidential seat," 



Scene— The Chateau of Wilhelmshohe, 
in Cassel. 



German Citizens walking in the Gardens without. 



First Citizen. 

How fine it is to lounge in talk 
Together, down this long green walk : 
While russet trees to left and right 
Snaring the rosy shafts of light 
Shade them to silver, till they glow 
There on the roof of the chateau 
Gleaming bright ruby ! 

B 



NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



Second Citizen. 

Not too near- 
The place is private. 



First Citizen. 

Didst thou hear 
The news ? Another glorious blow 
For Fatherland ! 



Second Citizen. 

To-night at five 
I saw the courier arrive, 
Bringing the news to him who waits 
Yonder. — O he may thank the fates 
He sits so snug, the man of sin ! — 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 



How cunningly, before the end, 

The Snake contrived to save his skin ! 



First Citizen. 

Thou art too hard upon him, friend. 
He saw that all his cards were played, 
And so, to save more bloodshed, strayed 
Into the cage. 

Second Citizen. 

A cage, indeed ! 
Where from a gold plate he may feed 
Of all earth's dainties, while afar 
France, 'neath the tramping feet of War, 
Bleeds like a winepress. There he lolls, 
Butcher of bodies and of souls, 
Smiling, and sees the storm blow by ! 



NAPOLEON FALLEN 



First Citizen. 
What could he do ? 

Second Citizen. 

Could he not die ? 

First Citizen. 

Die ? Sentiment ! If I were he 
I'd bless the stars which set me free 
From that foul-hearted "Whore's embrace, 
France, with her fickle painted face. 
Better in Germany to dine, 
Smoke one's cigar, and sip one's wine ; 
And in good time, like most, no doubt, 
Who have worn their wicked members out, 
Repent, and be absolved, and then 
Die in one's bed, like smaller men ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 



Second Citizen. 
Thou cynic ! 

First Citizen's Wife. 

Dost thou think that he 



Is happy ? 



First Citizen. 

Why not ? . . Possibly, 
My dear, 'tis something after all 
To know the worst that can befall ; 
To know, whatever joy or sorrow 
Fate is preparing for the morrow, 
It cannot make more dark the lot 
One bears to-night. Flappy ! Why not r 
Happy as most of our poor kind. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



Wife. 
He has so much upon his mind ! 

First Citizen. 

A woman's thought ; — but hark to me, 

And take this for philosophy — 

Beyond a given amount of pain, 

The spirit suffers not a grain. 

What stuff we humble folk are taught 

Of monarchs and their weight of thought ! 

Why, thou and I, and Jack and Jill, 

Feel just as much of good and ill, 

Of life and strife, of thought and care, 

As he who sitteth musing there ! 

Second Citizen. 

I saw him walking, yesterday. 

He is much aged of late, they say— 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 



He stoops much, and his features are 
Gray like the ash of the cigar 
He smokes for ever. 

First Citizen {to Wife). 

Come, my dear, 
Let's home ! 'Tis growing chilly here ; 
So ! — take my arm. Yes, I contend 
It matters little in the end 
If one be beggar, priest, or king — 
The whip's for all — the pang, the sting ! 
Dost thou remember — canst forget ? 
When all our goods were seized for debt, 
In Friedberg ? Claim was heap'd on claim — 
Blow came on blow — shame follow'd shame ; 
And last, to crown our dire distress, 
Thy brother Hans' hard-heartedness. 
Think you / felt a whit less sad, 
Less thunderstruck, less fierce, less mad, 



8 napoleon fallen: 

Than yonder melancholy Man, 

"When, through the dark cloud of Sedan, 

He, as a star that shoots by night, 

Swept from his sphere of lonely light, 

And at the feet of Wilhelm lay 

Glow-worm-like, in the garish day 

Of conquest ? Well, well ! wait and see- 

I rose again, and so may he. 

The world is but a play, tho' ye 

Dear creatures take it seriously : 

I cannot pity from my heart 

The player of the Monarch's part, 

For at the worst he never knows 

The famish'd Body's bitter throes. 

I pity more with all my soul 

The filler of the Soldier's role, 

Who feels the ball, and with a groan 

Sinks in the bloody ranks unknown, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 



And while the far-off cannon cries, 
Kisses his sweetheart's hair, and dies ! 

[Exeunt 

Enter , within the Chateau, Napoleon and a 
Physician. 

Physician. 

The sickness is no sickness of the flesh, 
No ailment such as common mortals feel, 
But spiritual ; 'tis thy fiery thought 
Drying the wholesome humour of the veins, 
Consuming the brain's substance, and from 

thence, 
As flame spreads, thro' each muscle, vein, 

and nerve, 
Reaching the vital members. If your High^ 

ness 



10 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Could stoop from the tense strain of great 

affairs 
To books and music, or such idle things 
As wing the weary hours for lesser men ! 
Turn not thine eyes to France; receive no 

news ; 
Shut out the blinding gleam of battle ; rest 
From all fierce ache of thought ; and for a 

time 
Let the wild world go by. 

Napoleon. 

Enough, old friend r 
Thine is most wholesome counsel. I will 

seek 
To make this feverish mass of nerve and 

thew, 
This thing of fretful heart-beats, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. II 

Fulfil its functions more mechanically. 
Farewell. 

Physician. 

Farewell, Sire. Brighter waking thoughts, 
And sweeter dreams, attend thee ! [Exit. 



Napoleon. 

All things change 
Their summer livery for the autumn tinge 
Of wind-blow r n withering leaves. That man 

is faithful, — 
I have eat my life from his cold palm for 

years, 
And I believe, so strong do use and wont 
Fetter such natures, he would die to serve 

me; 



NAPOLEON FALLEN! 



Yet do I see in his familiar eyes 

The fatal pain of pity. I have lain 

At death's door divers times, and he hath 

slowly, 
With subtle cunning and most confident 

skill, 
Wooed back my breath, but never even then, 
Tho' God's hand held me down, did he regard 

me 
With so intense a gaze as now, when smitten 
By the mail'd hand of man. I am not dead ! 
Not dying ! only sick, — as all are sick 
Who feel the mortal prison-house too weak 
For the free play of Soul ! I eat and drink — 
I laugh — I weep, perchance — I feel — I think — 
I still preserve all functions of a man — 
Yet doth the free wind of the fickle world 
Blow on me with as chilly a respect 
As on a nameless grave. Is there so sad 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 



A sunset on my face, that all beholding 
Think only of the morrow ? — other minds, 
Other hearts, other hands ? Almighty God, 
If I dare pray Thee by that name of God, 
Strengthen me ! blow upon me with Thy 

breath ! 
Let one last memorable flash of fire 
Burst from the blackening brand ! — 

Yes, sick — sick — sick ; 
Sick of the world ; sick of the fitful fools 
That I have played with ; sick, forsooth, of 

breath, 
Of thought, of hope, of Time. I staked my 

Soul 
Against a Crown, and won. I wore the 

Crown, 
And 'twas of burning fire. I staked my 

Crown 



T4 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Against a Continent, and lost. I am here ; 
Fallen, unking' d, the shadow of a power, 
Yet not heart-broken — no, not heart-broken — 
But surely with more equable a pulse 
Than when I sat on yonder lonely Seat 
Fishing for wretched souls, and for my sport, 
Although the bait was glorious gifts of earth, 
Hooking the basest only. I am nearer 
To the world's heart than then : 'tis bitter 

bread, 
Most bitter, yea, most bitter ; yet I eat 
More freely, and sleep safer. I could die 

now: 
And yet I dare not die. 

Maker of men ! 
Thou Wind before whose strange breath we 

are clouds 
Driving and changing ! — Thou who dost 

abide 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 15 

While all the crowns on all the heads of 

kings 
Wither as wreaths of snow ! — Thou Voice that 

dwellest 
In the high sleeping chambers of the great, 
When council and the feverish pomp are 

hush/d, 
And the dim lamp burns low, and at its side 
The sleeping potion in a cup of gold : — 
Hear me, O God, in this my travail hour ! 
From first to last, Thou knowest — yea, Thou 

knowest — 
I have been a man of peace : a silent man, 
Thought-loving, most ambitious to appease 
Self-chiding fears of mental littleness, 
A builder in the dark of temples fair 
Where men might meet together not for 

praise, 
A planner of delights for simple men — 



t6 napoleon fallen : 

In all, a man of peace. I struck one blow, 
And saw my hands were bloody ; from that 

hour 
I knew myself too delicately wrought 
For crimson pageants ; yea, the sight of pain 
Sicken'd me like a woman. Day and night 
I felt that stain on my immortal soul, 
And gloved it from the world, and diligently 
Wrought the red sword of empire to a scythe 
For the swart hands of husbandmen to reap 
Abundant harvest. — Nay, but hear me swear, 
I never dreamed such human harvests blest 
As spring from that red rain which pours this 

day 
On the fair fields I sowed. Never, O God, 
Was I a warrior or a thing of blood ; 
Always a man of peace : — in mine ambition 
Peace-seeking, peace-engendering ; — till that 

day 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. IJ 

I saw the half-unloosen'd hounds of War 
Yelp on the chain, and gnash their bloody 

teeth, 
Ready to rend mine unoffending Child, 
In whose weak hand the mimic toy of empire 
Trembled to fall. Then feverishly I 

wrought 
A weapon in the dark to smite those hounds 
From mine imperial seat ; and as I wrought 
One of the fiends that came of old to Cain 
Found me, and since I thirsted gave to me 
A philtre, and in idiocy I drank : 
When suddenly I heard as in a dream 
Trumpets around me silver-tongued, and saw 
The many-colour'd banners gleam i'* the sun 
Above the crying legions, and I rode 
Royal before them, drunk with light and 

power, 
My boy beside me blooming like a rose 

C 



NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



To see the glorious show. Yet God, my God, 
Even then I swear the hideous lust of life 
Was far from me and mine ; nay, I rode forth, 
As to a gay review at break of day, 
A student dazzled with the golden glare, 
Half conscious of the cries of those he ruled, 
Half brooding o'er the book that he had left 
Open within his chamber. "Blood may flow," 
I thought, " a little blood — a few poor drops, — 
A few poor drops of blood : but they shall 

prove 
Pearls of great price to buy my people peace ; 
The hounds of War shall turn from our fair 

fields, 
The cannon shall become a trump of praise, 
And on my son a robe like this I wear 
Shall fall, and make him royal for all time ! " 
O fool, fool, fool ! What was I but a child, 
Pleased beyond understanding with a toy, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 19 

Till in mine ears the scream of murtherd 

France 
Rang like a knell. I had slain my best 

beloved ! 
The curse of blood was on mine hands 

again! 
My gentle boy, with wild affrighted gaze, 
Turn'd from his sire, and moaned; the hound's- 

of War 
Scream'd round me, glaring with their pitiless 

eyes 
Innumerable as the eyes of heaven ; 
I felt the sob of the world's woe ; I saw 
The fiery rain fill all the innocent air ; 
And, feeble as a maid who hides her face 
In terror at a sword flash, conscience-struck, 
Sick, stupefied, appalled, and all alone, 
I totter'd, grasped the empty air,— and 

fell ! 



20 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 



CHORUS. 



Strophe I. 



Ah woe ! ah woe ! 
How art thou fallen, Man of Mysteries ! 
Is this the face, are these the subtle eyes, 
Kings sought in vain to fathom, and to know ? 

O Man of Mysteries, 

O thou whom men deem'd wise, 
Call not on God this day — His hand hath 

struck thee low. 



Anti-Strophe I. 

Call not on God, but listen. 
Yea, with thy soul's ears, listen ! The earth 
groans, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 21 

The thunder roars, swords flash, blue light- 
nings glisten ! 
Hark ! those are human moans ! 
List ! the sharp rattle of the fiery hail, 
The splashing rain of blood ! Dost thou turn 

pale ? 
Who wrought this ? who atones ? 
What, thou the people's Shepherd ? Look, and 

see : 
Thy fields are darken' d with a blood-black 

pall; 
Thy farms are ruinous ; in the granary, 
Where golden wheat should be, 
The wounded lambs are gather' d as they fall. 

O Man of Mysteries, 

Hearken unto their cries ; — 
Call not on God this day — 'tis now too late 

to call. 



22 NAPOLEON FALLEN! 

Strophe II. 

Yet, if thou darest, pray. Thou canst not tell 

How prayer may bring thee gain ; — 

And with thy prayer say thou these words as 

well : — 
" Soon falls the house mark'd with the cross 

of Cain ! " 
O man, with secret hands thou didst prepare 
A Pleasure-house most rare, 
A beauteous Temple magically built, 
So that thy people gladdened unaware 
And wandering therein forgot thy guilt, 
And drank the amorous ditties woven there 
To lutes of lechers and their lemans fair ; 
And all glad things were welcome in thy 

sight 
Save the glad air of heaven; all things 

bright 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 23 

Save the bright light of day ; and all things 

sweet 
Save country-featured Truth and Honesty : 
All these thou didst abolish from thy Seat, 
Because these things were free. 

Thou call" on God this day — 

Thou call to the Most High— 
Who asked Hell's blessing then, and let 

God's gifts go by ! 



Anti-Strophe II. 

Pray yet, and heark. This Temple where thy 

name 
Was fluted forth by silver choirs of Fame, 
This Pleasure-house of nations, this abode 
Of strange enchantments, in due time became 
An outrage and a shame, 

Abominable in the eyes of God ; 



24 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

For all the beauteous things within the 

place 
Were witchcraft : all its glory was a lie ; 
Not one true angel but perceived it base — 
There was no gift of grace 
But such as bawds may sell and gold can 

buy; 
Nay, even Art and Music, each with face 
Averted, passed in tears. Thereon a cry 
Went up against thy marvellous work and 

thee 
From the throats of all things free. 
And o'er thy fields the desolating horde 
Like to a swarm of locusts rose and 

spread ! 
The lightning of the Lord 
Struck at thy glorious Temple, and it fled 
Like vapour before sunlight ! The green 

sod 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 25 

Is bloody where it stood and fair feet trod. 

Fallen with thee it lies, 

And it shall ne'er arise. 
How should God bless thy work ? Thou did'st 

not build to God. 

Enter a Bishop. 

Napoleon. 

Speak out thy tidings quickly, 

How fares it with the Empress and my son r 

Bishop. 

Well, Sire. They bid thee look thy fate in the 

face, 
And be of cheer. 

Napoleon. 
Where didst thou part with them \ 



26 NAPOLEON -FALLEN : 

Bishop. 

In England, Sire, where they have found a 

home 
Among the frozen-blooded islanders 
Who yesterday called blessings on thy brow, 
And now rejoice in thy calamity. 
Thus much thy mighty lady bade me say, 
If I should find thee private in thy woe : — 
With thy great name the streets are garrulous ; 
Mart, theatre, and church, palace and prison, 
Down to the very commons by the road 
Where Egypt's bastard children pitch their 

tents, 
Murmur " Napoleon ; u but, alas ! the sound 
Is as an echo that with no refrain, 
No loving echo in a living voice, 
Dies a cold death among the mountain 

snow. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 27 

Napoleon. 

Old man, I never looked for friendship there, 
I never loved that England in my heart ; 
Tho' 'twas by such a sampler I believed 
To weave our France's fortunes thriftily 
With the gold tissues of prosperity. 

Bishop. 
Ah, Sire, if I dare speak — 

Napoleon. 

Speak on. 

Bishop. 

Too much 
Thine eyes to that cold isle of heretics 





28 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Turn'd from thy throne for use and precedent ; 
Too little did they look, and that too late, 
On that strong rock whereon the Lord thy God 
Hath built His Holy Church. 

Napoleon. 

Something of this 
I have heard in happier seasons. 

Bishop. 

Hear it now 
In the dark day of thine adversity. 

Sire, by him who holds the blessed Keys, 
Christ's Vicar on the earth for blinded men, 

1 do conjure thee, hearken — with my mouth, 
Tho' I am weak and low, the Holy Church 
Cries to her erring son ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 29 

Napoleon. 

Well, well, he hears. 

Bishop. 

Thou smilest, Sire. With such a smile, so 

grim, 
So bitter, didst thou mock our blessed cause 
In thy prosperity. 

Napoleon. 

• False, Bishop, false ! 
I made a bloody circle with my sword 
Round the old Father's head, and so secured 

him 
Safe on his tottering Seat against the world, 
When all the world cried that his time was 

come. 



30 napoleon fallen: 

What then ? He totter d on. I could not 

prop 
His Seat up with my sword, that Seat being 

built, 
Not on a rock, but sand. 



Bishop. 

The world is sick 
And old indeed, when lips like thine blas- 
pheme. 
Whisper such words out on the common air, 
And, as a child, 
Blow thy last hopes away. 

Napoleon. 

Hopes, hopes ! What hopes ? 
What knowest thou of hopes ? 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 31 

Bishop. 

Thy throne was rear'd 
(Nay hear me, Sire, in patience to the end) 
Not on the vulgar, unsubstantial air 
Which men call Freedom, not on half consent 
Of unbelievers — tho', alas ! thou hast stoop' d 
To smile on unbelievers — not on lives 
That saw in thee one of the good and wise, 
Not wholly on the watchword of thy name ; 
But first on this — the swords thy gold could 

buy, 
And most and last, upon the help of those 
Who to remotest corners of our land 
Watch o'er the souls of men, sit at their 

hearths, 
Lend their solemnity to birth and death, 
Guide as they list the motions of the mind, 
And as they list with darkness or with light 



32 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Appease the spiritual hunger. Where 

Had France been, and thou, boasted Sun of 

France, 
For nineteen harvests, save for those who 

crept 
Thine agents into every cottage door, 
Slowly distilling thro' each vein of France 
The vital blood of empire ? Like to slaves 
These served thee, used thy glory for a charm, 
Hung up thine image in the peasant's room 
Beside our blessed saints, and cunningly, 
As shepherds drive their sheep unto the fold, 
Gather' d thy crying people where thy hand 
Might choose them out for very butchery. 
Nay, more ; as fearful men may stamp out 

fire, 
They in the spirits of thy people killed 
The sparks of peril left from those dark 

days, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 33 



When France, being drunk with blood and 

mad with pain, 
Sprang on the burning pyre, and all her 

raiment 
Burning and streaming crimson in the wind, 
Curst and denied her God. They made men see, 
Yea in the very name of Liberty, 
A net of Satan's set to snare the soul 
From Christ and Christ's salvation : in their 

palms 
They welded the soft clay of popular thought 
To this wish'd semblance yet more cunningly ; 
Till not a peasant heir of his own fields, 
And not a citizen that own'd a house, 
And not a man or woman who had saved, 
But when some wild voice shriek' d out 

" Liberty ! " 
Trembled as if the robber's foot were set 
Already on his threshold, and in fear 

D 



34 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Clutch' d at his little store. These things did 
they, 

Christ's servants serving thee ; they were as 
veins 

Of iron binding France to thee, its heart, 

Throbbing full glorious in the capital. 

And thou, O Sire, in thine own secret mind 

Knowest what meed thou hast accorded 
them, 

"Who, thy sworn liegemen in thy triumph- 
hour, 

Are still thy props in thy calamity. 

Napoleon. 
Well ; have you done ? 

Bishop. 

Not yet. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 7,$ 



Napoleon. 

What more ? 

Bishop. 

Look round 
This day on Europe, look upon the World, 
Which, like a dark tree o'er the river of Time, 
Hangeth with fruit of races, goodly some, 
Some rotten to the core. Out of the heart 
Of what had seem'd the sunset of the west, 
Rises the Teuton, silent, subtle, and sure, 
Gathering his venom slowly like a snake, 
Wrapping the sleepy lands in fold by fold ; 
Then springing up to stab his prey with fangs 
Numerous as spears of wheat in harvest time. 
O, he is wise, the Teuton, he is deep 
As Satan's self in perilous human lore, 



o 



6 napoleon fallen: 



Such as the purblind deem philosophy ! 
But, be he cunning as the tempter was, 
Christ yet shall bruise his head; for in himself 
He bears, as serpents use, 
A brood of lesser snakes, cunning things too, 
But lesser, and of these many prepare 
Such peril as in his most glorious hour 
May strike him feebler than the wretched 

worms 
That crawl this day on the dead lambs of 

France. 
Meantime, he to his purpose moveth slow, 
And overcomes. Note how, upon her rock, 
The sea-beast Albion, swollen with idle 

years 
Of basking in the prosperous sunshine, rolls 
Her fearful eyes, and murmurs. See how 

wildly 
The merciless Russian paceth like a bear 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 37 



His lonely steppes of snow, and with deep 

moan 
Calling his hideous young, casts famished eyes 
On that worn Paralytic in the East 
Whom thou of old didst save. Call thou to 

these 
For succour ; shall they stir ? Will the sea- 
beast 
Budge from her rock ? Will the bear leave 

his wilds ? 
Then mark how feebly in the wintry cold 
Old Austria ruffles up her plumage, Sire, 
Covering the half-heal'd wound upon her 

neck; 
See how on Spain her home-bred vermin feed, 
As did the worms on Herod ; Italy 
Is as a dove-cote by a battle-field, 
Abandoned to the kites of infamy ; 
Belgium, Denmark, and Helvetia, 



$8 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 



Like plovers watching while the wind-hover 
Strikes down one of their miserable kind, 
Wheeling upon the wind, cry to each other ; 
And far away the Eagle of the West, 
Poised in the lull of her own hurricane, 
Sits watching thee with eyes as blank of love 
As those grey seas that break beneath her feet. 

Napoleon. 

This is cold comfort, yet I am patient. Well ? 

To the issue ! Dost thou keep behind the 
salve 

Whose touch shall heal my wounds ? or dost 
thou only, 

As any raven on occasion can, 

Croak out the stale truth, that the day is lost, 

And that the world's slaves knee the con- 
queror ? 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 39 



Bishop. 

Look not on these, thy crowned peers, for aid, 
But inward. Read thy heart. 

Napoleon. 

It is a book 
I have studied somewhat deeply. 

Bishop. 

In thine heart, 
Tho' the cold lips might sneer, the dark brow 

frown, 
Wert thou not ever one believing God ? 

Napoleon. 
I have believed, and do believe, in God. 



40 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Bishop. 

For that, give thanks to God. He shall up- 
lift thee. 

Napoleon. 

How ? 

Bishop. 

By the secret hands of His great Church. 
Even now in darkness and in scenes remote 
They labour in thy service ; one by one 
They gather up the fallen reins of power 
And keep them for thy grasp ; so be thou 

sure, 
When thou hast gather d round about thy soul 
The Robe of Holiness, and from the hands 
Of Holy Church demandest thy lost throne, 
It shall be hers to give thee. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 41 

Napoleon. 

In good truth, 
I scarce conceive thee. What, degenerate 

Rome, 
With scarce the power in this strong wind of 

war 
To hold her ragged gauds about her limbs ; 
Rome, reft of the deep thunder in her voice, 
The dark curse in her eye ; Rome, old, dumb, 

blind,- — 
Shall Rome give Kingdoms ? — Why, she hath 

already 
Transferred her own to Heaven. 

Bishop. 

Canst thou follow 
The coming and the going of the wind, 
Fathom the dark abysses of the sea \ 



42 NAPOLEON FALLEN 



For such as these, is Rome : — the voice of God 

Sounding in darkness and a silent place ; 

The morning dew scarce seen upon the 
flowers, 

Yet drawn to heaven and grown the thunder- 
bolt 

That strikes a King at noon. When man's 
wild soul 

Clutches no more at the white feet of Christ ; 

When death is not, nor spiritual disease ; 

When atheists can on the dark mountain 
tops 

Walk solitary in the light of stars, 

And cry, " God is not ; " when no mothers 
kneel 

Moaning on graves of children; when no flashes 

Trouble the melancholy dark of dream ; 

When prayer is hush'd, when the Wise Book 
is shut — 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 43 

Then Rome shall fall indeed : meantime she 

is based 
Invulnerable on the soul of man, 
Its darkest needs and fears ; she doth dispense 
What soon or late is better prized than gold, — 
Comfort and intercession ; for all sin 
She hath the swiftest shrift, wherefore her 

clients 
Are those that have sinned deeply, and of such 
Is half the dreadful world ; all these she holds 
By that cold eyeball which has read their 

souls, 
So that they look upon her secretly 
And tremble, — while in her dark book of Fate 
E'en now she dooms the Teuton. 

Enter a Messenger. 
Napoleon. 

Well, what news r 



44 NAPOLEON FALLEN 



Messenger. 

'Tis brief and sad. The mighty Prussian 

chiefs, 
Gathering their fiery van in silence, 

close 
Toward the imperial City — in whose walls 
Treason and Rage and Fear contend together 
Like hunger-stricken wolves ; and at their 

cry, 
Echoed from Paris to the Vosges, France, 
Calling her famish' d children round her 

knees, 
Implores the trembling nations. All is still, 
Like to that silence which precedes the storm, 
And shakes the forest leaves without a breath; 
But surely as the vaporous storm is woven, 
The German closes round the heart of France 
His hurricane of lives. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 45 



Napoleon [to Bishop). 

The Teuton thrives 
Under the doom we spake of. [To Mes- 
senger.) Well, speak on ! 

Messenger. 

Meantime, like kine that see the gathering 

clouds, 
And shelter 'neath the shade of rocks and 

trees, 
Thy timorous people fly before the sound 
Of the approaching footsteps, seeking woods 
For shelter, snaring conies for their food, 
And sleeping like the beasts ; some fare in 

caves, 
Fearing the wholesome air, hushing the 

cries 
Of infants lest the murderous foe should hear ; 



46 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Some scatter west and south, their frighted eyes 
Cast backward, with their wretched household 

goods ; 
And where these dwelt, most blest beneath 

thy rule, 
The German legions thrive, let loose like 

swine 
Amid the fields of harvest, in their track 
Leaving the smoking ruin, and the church 
Most desecrated to a sleeping-sty ; — 
So that the plenteous lands that rolled in gold 
Round thine imperial city, lie full bare 
To shame, to rapine, to calamity. 

Napoleon. 

for one hour of empire, that with life 

1 might consume this sorrow ! 'Tis a spell 
By which we are subdued ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 47 



Messenger. 

Strasbourg still stands, 
Stubborn as granite, but the citadel 
Has fallen. Within, Famine and Horror nest, 
And rear their young on ruin. [Exit. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Napoleon. 

How, peal on peal ! 
Like the agonizing clash of bells, when flame 
Has seized on some fair city. News, more 

news ? 
Dost thou too catch the common trick o' the 

time, 
And ring a melancholy peal ? 

Messenger. 

My liege, 
Strasbourg still stands. 



48 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Napoleon. 

And then ? 

Messenger. 

Pent up in Metz, 
Encircled by a river of strong lives, 
Bazaine is faithful to the cause and thee, 
And from his prison doth proclaim himself, 
And all the host of Frenchmen at his back, 
Thy liegemen to the death. 

Napoleon. 

Why, that last peal 
Sounds somewhat blither. Well ? 

Messenger. 

From his lone isle, 
The old Italian Red-shirt in his age 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 49 

Has crawl' d, tho' sickly and infirm, to France, 
And slowly there his leonine features breed 
Hope in the timid people, who 



Napoleon. 

Enough ! \_Exit Messenger. 
That tune is flat and tame. 

{Enter a Messenger. 

"What man art thou, 

On whose swart face the frenzied lightning 

plays, 
Prophetic of the thunder on the tongue ? 
Speak ! 

Messenger. 

Better I had died at Weissemberg, 
Where on the bloody field I lay for dead, 

E 



50 napoleon fallen: 

Than live to bring this woe. Ungenerous 

France, 
Forgetful of thy gracious years of reign, 
Pitiless as a sated harlot is 
When ruin overtaketh him whose hand 
Hath loaded her with gems, shameless and 

mad, 
France, like Delilah, now betrays her lord. 
The streets are drunken — from thy palace-gate 
They pluck the imperial eagles, trampling 

them 
Into the bloody mire ; thy flags and pennons, 
Torn from their vantage in the wind, are 

wrapt 
In mockery round the beggars ragged limbs ; 
And thine imperial images in stone, 
Dash'd from their lofty places, strew the 

ground 
In shameful ruin. All the ragged shout, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 51 

While from the presidential seat Trochu 
Proclaims the empire dead, and calleth up 
A new Republic, in whose chairs of office 
Thine enemies, scribblers and demagogues, 
Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and with these 
The miserable Rochefort, trembling grasp 
The reins of power, unconscious of the scorn 
That doth already doom them. To their feet 
Come humming back, vain-drunken, all the 

wasps 
That in thine hour of glory thou didst brush 
With careless arm-sweep from thy festal cup : 
Shoulder d by mobs the pigmy Blanc declaims, 
The hare-brain' d Hugo shrieks a maniac song 
In concert, and the scribblers, brandishing 
Their pens like valiant Lilliputians 
Against the Teuton giant, frantically 
Scream chorus. Coming with mock-humble 

eyes 



52 NAPOLEON FALLEN I 

To the Republic, this sham shape of straw, 
This stuffd thing of a harlot's carnival, 
The dilettante sons of Orleans, kneeling, 
Proffer forsooth their swords,, which, .. being 

disdain'd, 
They sheathe chopfallen, and with bows 

withdraw 
Back to their pictures and perfumery. 



Napoleon. 

Why, thine is news indeed. Nor do I weep 
For mine own wrong, but for the woes of 

France, 
Whose knell thou soundest. With a tongue 

of fire 
Our enemy shall like the ant-eater 
Devour these insect rulers suddenly. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 53 

[Aside) Now, may the foul fiend blacken all 

the air 
Above these Frenchmen, with revolt and fear 
Darken alike the wits of friends and foes, 
With swift confusion and with anarchy 
Disturb their fretful councils, till at last, 
Many-tongued, wild-hair' d, mad, and horrible, 
With fiery eyes and naked crimson limbs, 
Upriseth the old Spectre of the Red, 
And as of yore uplifts the shameful knife 
To stab unhappy France ; then, in her need, 
Fearful and terror-stricken, France shall call 
On him who gave her nineteen years of sleep — 
And he may rise again. [_Examf. 

CHORUS. 

Strophe I. 

First turning eastward thrice, and making the 
mystic sign, 



54 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Wipe ye the bloody hair out of her beautiful 

eyne, 
And cover up her face with the black fold of 

her dress : 
Then, lastly, stooping slow, raise her with 

tenderness, 
And follow where we lead with a melancholy 

tread, 
Beating our bared breasts to the deep chant 

of the dead ; 
Nor fail each man to crave in a deep voice and 

strong, 
That God may smite those sore who did her 

this foul wrong ; 
Nor fail each man to pause and draw deep 

breaths of prayer, 
And all for France, our murdered France, 

whom to the grave we bear. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 55 



Anti-Strophe L 

Sons, ye are bloody-shod! Sons, ye breathe 

bloody breath ! 
Your nostrils feel, O sons, the salt sharp 

stench of death ! 
Your brethren rot afield, your children cry in 

the dark ; 
Across your sisters' throats the butcher 

leaves his mark ; 
With shameful finger-stains upon their bosom 

bare, 
Your dear ones lie and hide their faces in their 

hair; 
And yet I say this night, your pangs are light 

and free 
Beside her pangs whose dust ye carry after 

me. 



56 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

And yet I say this night, hush up your private 

wrong, 
Gather your wrath, my sons, in one deep 

breath and strong — 
Curse me the Teuton butchers ! Curse me 

son, mother, and sire ! 
Call to the Lord for slaughter ! call to the 

Lord for fire ! 
Scream me the thunders down ! cry till the 

lightnings spring ! 
And all for France, our mother France, whom 

we are carrying. 

Strophe II. 

Last night she was a Queen ! — draw back the 

cloak, and lo ! 
The pale face set in hair threaded with silver 

snow, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 57 

The thin close-pressed lips, the delicate silken 

chin, 
The round great eyes closed up, and dark, 

all dark, within. 
Come, touch her on the cheek ; come, bless 

her as she lies ; 
Come, kiss the dark lids down on the beloved 

eyes ; 
k Fall'n in her hour of pride, torn from her 

triumph-car, 
Is she not dearer still than all things earthly 

are ? 
O France ! O Mother ! speak. O beautiful 

Mother, wake ! 
Look on us, for we die : — we die for thy dear 

sake : 
The slayer is at our gates — weak are our 

prayers and vain — 
. . . Ah, God, she is not dead ! — she stirs ! 
— her eyes unclose again ! 



58 NAPOLEON FALLEN I 



Anti-Strophe II. 

Sons, gather round, gather round ! Sons, be 

of cheer, be of cheer ! 
Beautiful, pale as snow, she stirs upon her 

bier. 
Ah, but she is not dead ! Mother, O Mother, 

speak ! 
She rises up her height — the bright blood 

burns in her cheek — 
See how her great eyes gleam thro' tears of 

pain and shame — 
See how the mighty lips tremble and quiver 

to flame. 
She reacheth down to feel her sword, and it is 

there — 
She holds it up to God ; it gleams in the 

black air ; 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 59 

Sons, gather round, gather round ! Sons, it 
is not too late ! 

She turns her face to him who croucheth at 
the gate — 

In the wild wind of w r ar her bloodstained gar- 
ments wave — 

With bitter, bleeding heart, our France springs 
up as from the grave. 

Strophe III. 

Set the cannon on the heights ! and under 
Let the black moat gape, the black graves 
grow ! 
Now, let thunder 

Answer back the thunder of the foe ! 
France has torn her cerements asunder — 
France doth live, to strike the oppressor 
low. 



60 napoleon fallen: 

Now let the smithy blaze, and the blue steel 

be sped ; 
Twist iron into guns, cast ye the fatal 

lead; 
Drag cannon to the gate, — and let our bravest 

stand 
Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim'd, 

torch in hand. 
Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of 

Stars upraise ; 
Let those sing martial songs who are too frail 

for frays. 
France is uprisen again ! France, the sworn 

slayer of Kings ! 
With bleeding breast and bitter heart, at the 

Teuton's throat she springs. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 6l 

Anti-Strophe III. 

Dig the trenches broad and deep ! and, 
after, 
They shall serve for foemen's graves as 
well — 
Let fierce laughter 

Serve the German butchers for a knell. 
Fire the paths they tread! Let floor and 
rafter 
Blaze, till all our city is as Hell. 
Now should they enter in, stand ye prepared 

with flame 
To light the hidden mine under the city of 

shame. 
Gather our children and wives, let them not 

watch or weep ; 
While we are striking home let them be pray- 
ing deep. 



62 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

They are famish'd, give them food — they are 

thirsty, let them drink : 
Blood shall suffice for us, whether we rise or 

sink. 
France is uprisen again! — how should we 

drink and eat, 
Till, stiff in death, the Teuton snake is coil'd 

beneath her feet ? 

Strophe IV. 

Now like thunder 

Be our voice together while we cry — 
Kings shall never hold our spirits under, 
Kings shall cast their crowns aside and 
fly. 
Latin, Sclav, or Teuton, they shall wonder ; 
The soul of man hath doom'd them— let 
them die. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 63 



We have slain Kings of old — they were our 

own to slay — 
But now we doom all Kings until the Judg- 
ment Day. 
Raise ye the Flag of Stars ! Tremble, O 

kings, and behold ! 
Raise ye the Flag of Man, while the knell of 

anarchs is toird ! 
This is a festal day for all the seed of Eve : 
France shall redeem the world, and heal all 

hearts that grieve ; 
France with her sword this day shall free all 

human things ; 
With blood drain'dfrom her heart, our France 

shall write the doom of Kings. 

Anti-Strophe IV. 

Fill each loophole with a man ! and finding 
Each a foe, aim slowly at the brain, 



64 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

While the blinding 

Lightnings flash, and the great guns re- 
frain. 
To the roofs ! and while beneath the foe are 
winding 
Dash ye stones and missiles down like 
rain. 
Watch for the greybeard King : to drink his 

blood were great. 
Watch for the Cub thereto — aim at his brain 

full straight. 
Watch most for that foul Knave, who crawls 

behind the Crown, 
Who smiles, befooling all, with crafty eyes 

cast down : 
Sweeter than wine indeed his damned blood 

would flow, 
Curst juggler with our souls, he who hath 
wrought this woe. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 65 

France hath uprisen again ! Let the fierce 

shaft be sped ! 
Till all the foul Satanic things that flatter 

Kings be dead ! 

Strophe V. 

Send the light balloon aloft with singing, 

Let our hopes rise with it to the sky ! 
Let our voices like one fount upspringing 
Tell the mighty realm that hope is 
nigh. 
See, in answer, from the distance wing- 
ing, 
Back unto our feet the swift doves fly. 
Read! read! yea, all is well, — yea, let our 

' hearts be higher ; 
North, south, east, west, the souls of French- 
men are as fire. 

F 



66 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Wildly from hill to hill the blessed tidings 

speed ! 
Come from your fields, O sons ! France is 

arisen indeed. 
The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman 

leaves his loom. 
Tho' the black priest may frown, who heeds 

his look of gloom r 
Flash the wild tidings forth ! ring them from 

town to town, — 
Till like a storm of scythes we rise, and the 

foe like w^heat go down. 

Anti-Strophe V. 

See, how northward the wild heavens lighten ! 

Red as blood the fierce aurora waves ; 
Let it bathe us strong in blood, and brighten 

Sweet with resurrection on our graves — 
Lighten, lighten ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 67 

Scroll of God ! unfold above and brighten ! 
Light the doom of monarchs and their 

slaves ! 
This is a day indeed — be sure that God can 

see. 
Raise the fierce cry again, " Liberty ! 

Liberty ! " 
Courage ! no man dies twice, and he shall 

live in death, 
Who for the Flag of Stars strikes with his 

latest breath. 
Nay, not a foe shall live to tell if France be 

slain. 
If the wild cause be lost, only the grave shall 

gain. 
Teuton and Frank in fierce embrace shall 

strew the fatal sod ; 
And they shall live indeed who died to save 

their souls for Gcd ! 



68 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 



Enter Napoleon and an Officer. 

Officer. 

Once in a dream, being worn and weak, I saw 

A fight between a hydra and a wolf, 

In which the wily thing, with fold on fold 

Of luminous coils enveloping its foe, 

So that it could not breathe, nor stir, nor 

scream, 
Struck not, but shooting out its hugest 

head, 
Coiling it backward as I tw T ist my arm, 
Poised o'er the wolfs fierce face, and, with 

red fangs 
Drawn and withdrawn to a horrid hissing 

sound, 
Gazed stedfast with mesmeric orbs of fire 
Into the fierce yet fascinated eyes 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 69 

That watch'd them slowly closing up for 

doom. 
E'en so it seem'd to stand of late with France 
And her oppressor. But by God's own 

hand, 
Or by some agency well deem'd divine, 
The spell is shaken. Screaming in despair 
The wolf strikes at the snake, and with 

strong feet 
Forcing the fierce head to the ground, pre- 
pares 
To spring upon and rend it, though around 
The lesser heads, hissing like red-hot iron 
Dashed into water, stab, and stab, and 

stab, 
With thrusts repeated swift as one can 

breathe, 
At the lean sides that run with bitterest 

blood, 



70 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

While still the great heart throbbeth strong 

and true, 
And still the wild face, fearless even to death, 
Gleameth by fits with rage and agony. 

Napoleon. 
Is there no hope for France r 

Officer. 

None. Yet I know not. 
A nation thus miraculously strengthen'd, 
And acting in the fiercest wrath of love, 
Hath risen ere this above calamity, 
And out of anguish conjured victory. 
If strength and numbers, if the mighty hand 
Of the Briareus, shall decide the day, 
Then surely as the sun sets France must 
fall; 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. . 71 



If love or prayer can make a miracle 

And bring an angel down to strike for her, 

Then France may rise again. 

Napoleon. 

Have we not proved 
Her children cowards ? Yea, by God ! Like 

dogs 
That rend the air with wrath upon the 

chain, 
And being loosen'd slink before the thief, 
They fail'd me — those who led and those 

who follow' d ; 
Scarce knowing friend from foe, while inch by 

inch 
The Germans ate their ranks as a slow fire 
Devoureth wind-blown wheat. I cannot trust 
In France or Frenchmen. 



72 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Officer. 

Sire 

Napoleon. 

Why dost thou hang 
Thy head, old friend, and look upon the 

ground ? 
Nay, if all Frenchmen had but hearts like 

thine, 
Then France were blest in sooth, and I, its 

master, 
Were safe against the swords of all the 

world. 

Officer. 

Sire, 'twas not that I meant — my life is yours 
To give or take, to blame or praise ; I blush'd 
Not for myself, but France. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA, 73 

Napoleon. 

Then hadst thou cause 
For crimson cheeks indeed. 

Officer. 

Sire, as I live, 
Thou wrongest her ! The breast whereon we 

grew 
Suckled no cowards. For one dizzy hour 
France totter'd, and look'd back; but now, 

indeed, 
She hath arisen to the very height 
Of her great peril. 

Napoleon. 

'Tis too late. She is lost. 
She did betray her master, and shall die. 



74 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Officer. 

Not France betrayed thee, Sire ; but rather 

those 
Whom thy most noble nature, royally based 
Above suspicion and perfidious fear, 
Welcom'd unto thy council; not poor France, 
Whose bleeding wounds speak for her loud 

as tongues, 
Bit at the hand that raised her up so high ; 
Not France, but bastard Frenchmen, doubly 

damn'd 
Alike by her who bare them, and by thee 
Who fed them. These betrayed thee to thy 

doom, 
And falling clutch'd at thine imperial crown, 
Dragging it with them to the bloody dust ; 
But these that held her arms like bands of 

lead 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 75 

Being torn from off her, France, unchain'd 

and free, 
Uplifts her pale front to the stars, and stands 
Serene in doom and danger, and sublime 
In resurrection. 



Napoleon. 

How the popular taint 
Corrupts the wholesome matter of thy mind ! 
This would be treason, friend, if we were 

strong — 
Now 'tis less perilous : the commonest wind 
Can blow its scorn upon the fallen. 



Officer. 

Sire, 

Behold me on my knees, tears in mine eyes, 



j6 napoleon fallen: 

And sorrow in my heart. My life is thine, 
My life, my heart, my soul are pledged to 

thine ; 
And trebly now doth thy calamity 
Hold me thy slave and servant. If I pray, 
'Tis that thou mayst arise, and thou shalt rise ; 
And if T praise our common mother, France, 
Who for the moment hath forgot her lord, 
'Tis that my soul rejoices for thy sake, 
That, when thou comest to thine own again, 
Thy realm shall be a realm regenerate, 
Baptised, a fair thing worthy of thy love, 
In its own blood of direful victory. 

Napoleon. 

Say'st thou ? — Rise ! — Friend, thou art little 

skilled 
In reading that abstruse astrology 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 77 

Whereby our cunning politicians cast 
The fate of Kings. France robed in victory, 
Is France for ever lost to our great house. 
France fallen, is France that with my secret 

hand 
I may uplift again. But tell thy tale 
Most freely : let thy soul beat its free wings 
Before me as it lists. Come ! as thou 

sayest, 
France is no coward; — she hath at last 

arisen ; 
Nay, more — she is sublime. Proceed. 

Officer. 

My liege, 

God, ere he made me thy most loving servant, 

Made and baptised me, Frenchman ; and my 

heart, 

A soldier's heart, yearns out this day in pride 



78 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

To her who bare me, and both great and low 
My brethren. Courage is a virtue, Sire, 
Even in a wretched cause. In Strasbourg 

still 
Old Ulrich, with his weight of seventy years, 
Starves unsubdued, while the dull enemy 
Look on in wonder at such strength in woe ; 
Bazaine still keeps the glittering hosts at 

bay, 
And holds them with a watchful hand and 

eye ; 
The captain of the citadel of Laon, 
Soon as the foeman gather' d on his walls, 
Illumed the hidden mine, and Frank and 

Teuton, 
With that they strove for, strew' d the path in 

death; 
From Paris to the Vosges, loud and wild, 
The tocsin rings to arms, and on the fields 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 79 

The fat ripe ear empties itself unreapt, 
While t every man whose hand can grasp a 

sword 
Flocks to the petty standard of his town. 
The many looms of the great factory 
Stand silent, but the fiery moulds of clay 
Are fashioning cannon, and the blinding 

wheels 
Are sharpening steel. In every market- 
place 
Peasant and prince are drilling side by 

side ; 
Roused from their wine-fed torpor, changed 

from swine 
To men, the very country burghers arm, 
Nay, what is more to them than blood, bleed 

gold 
Bounteously, freely ; I have heard that 

priests, 



80 NAPOLEON fallen: 

Doffing the holy cassock secretly, 

Shouting uplift the sword, and crying Christ 

To aid them strike for France. Only the 

basest, 
Only the scum, shrink now ; for even women, 
Catching the noble fever of the time, 
Buckle the war -belts round their lovers' 

waists, 
And clapping hands, with mingled cries and 

sobs, 
Urge young and old against the enemy. 

Napoleon. 

Of so much thunder may the lightning spring. 
I know how France can thunder, and I have 

felt 
How women's tongues can urge. But what 

of Paris ? 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 8l 

What of Lutetia ? How doth it bear 
The terror and the agony ? 

Officer. 

Most bravely, 
As doth become the glorious heart of France : 
Strong, fearless, throbbing with a martial 

might, 
Dispensing from its core the vital heat 
Which filleth all the members of the land ; 
Tho' even now the sharp steel pricks the 

skin, 
To stab it in its strength. 

Napoleon. 

Who holds the reins 
Within the gates ? 

G 



82 NAPOLEON FALLEN I 

Officer. 

Trochu. 

Napoleon. 

Still ? Why, how long 
Have the poor fools been constant ? Favre 

also ? 
Gambetta ? Rochefort ? All these gentlemen 
Still flourish ? And Thiers ? Hath the arch- 
schemer 
A seat among the gods, a place of rank 
With the ephemera ? 

Officer. 

Not so, my liege. 

Napoleon. . 

Well, being seated on Olympus' top, 
What thunderbolts are France's puny Joves 






A LYRICAL DRAMA. 8$ 

Casting abroad ? Or do they sit and quake 
For awe of their own voices, which in France, 
As in the shifting glaciers of the Alps, 
May bring the avalanche upon their heads ? 

Officer. 

The men, to do them justice, use their power 
Calmly and soldierly, and for a time 
Forget the bitter humours of the senate 
In the great common cause. Paris is strong, 
And full of noble souls. 

Napoleon. 

Paris must fall. 

Officer. 

Not soon, my liege — for she is belted round 
And arm'd impregnable on every side. 



84 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Hunger and thirst may slay her, not the 

sword ; 
And ere the foeman's foot is heard within, 
Paris will spring upon her funeral pyre 
And, boldly as an Indian widow, follow 
Freedom, her spouse, to heaven. Last week I 

walk'd 
Reading men's faces in the silent streets, 
And, as I am a soldier, saw in none 
Fear or capitulation : very harlots 
Cried in their shame the name of Liberty, 
And, hustled from the gates, shriek' d out a 

curse 
Upon the coming German : all was still 
And dreadful ; but the citizens in silence 
Drilled in the squares ; on the great boulevard 

groups 
Whisper d together, with their faces pale 
At white heat; in the silent theatre, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 85 

Dim lit by lamps, were women, wives and 

mothers, 
Silently working for their wounded sons 
And husbands ; in the churches, too, they sat 
And wrought, while ever and anon a foot 
Rung on the pavement, and with sad red eyes 
They turn'd to see some armed citizen 
Kneel at his orisons or vespers. Nightly, 
Ere the moon rose, the City slept like death ; 
Yet as a lion sleeps, with half-shut eyes, 
Hearing each murmur on the weary wind, 
Crouching and steady for the spring. Each 

dawn 
I saw the country carts come rumbling in, 
And the scared country-folk, with large wild 

eyes 
And open mouths, who flock' d for shelter, 

bringing 
Horrible tidings of the enemy, 



86 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

"Who had devoured their fields and happy 

homes. 
Then suddenly like a low earthquake came 
The rumour that the foe was at the gates ; 
And climbing a cathedral roof that night, 
I saw the pitch-black distance sown with fire 
Gleam phosphorescent like the midnight sea, 
And heard at intervals mysterious sound, 
Like far off tempest, or the Atlantic waves 
Clashing on some great headland in a storm, 
Come smothered from afar. But, lingering yet, 
I haunted the great City in disguise, 
While silently the fatal rings were wound 
Around about it by the Teuton hosts : 
Still, as I am a soldier, saw no face 
That look'd capitulation : rather saw 
The knitted eyebrow and the clenched teeth, 
The stealthy hand that fingered with the sword, 
The eye that glanced as swift as hunger's doth 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 87 

Towards the battlements. Then (for a voice 
Was raised against my life) I sought Trochu, 
Mine ancient schoolfellow and friend in arms, 
And, though his brow darkened a moment's 

space, 
He knew me faithful, and reached out his hand 
To save me. By his secret help I found 
A place in a balloon, that, in the dark 
Ere daylight, rose upon a moaning wind, 
And drifted southward with the drifting 

clouds ; 
And as the white and frosty daylight grew, 
And opening crimson as a rose's leaves 
The clouds to eastward parted, I beheld 
The imperial City, gables, roofs, and spires, 
White and fantastic as a city of dream, 
Gleam orient, while the muffled drums within 
Sounded reveille ; then a flash and wreath 
Of vapour broke across the outer line, 



NAPOLEON FALLEN : 



Where the black fortifications frowning rose 
Ring above ring around the imperial gates, 
And flash on flash succeeded with a sound 
Most faint and lagging wearily behind. 
Still all without the City seemed as husht 
As sleep or death. But as the reddening 

day 
Scattered the mists, the tiny villages 
Loomed dim ; and there were distant glim- 
merings, 
And far-off muffled sounds : yet little there 
Showed the innumerable enemy, 
Who snugly housed and canopied with stone 
Lay hidden in their strength ; only the watch- 
fire 
Gleam'd here and there, only from place to 

place 
Masses oi shadow seem'd to move, and 
light 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 89 

Was glittered dimly back from hidden 

steel; 
And, woefullest sight of all, miles to the 

west, 
Along the dark line of the foe's advance, 
On the straight rim where earth and heaven 

meet, 
The forests blazed and to the driving clouds 
Cast blood-red phantoms growing dim in 

day. 
Meantime, like one whirl'd in a dizzy dream, 
Onward we drove below the driving cloud, 
And from the region of the burning fire 
And smouldering hamlet rose still higher, and 

saw 
The dim stars like to tapers burning out 
Above the region of the nether storm, 
And the illimitable ether growing 
Silent and dark in the deep wintry dawn. 



NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



* 

Enter hastily a Messenger. 

Messenger. 
Most weighty news, my liege, from Italy. 

Napoleon. 

Yes? 

Messenger. 

Rome is taken. The imperial walls 
Yawn where the cannon smote ; in the red 

streets, 
Romans embracing shout for Liberty ; 
From Florence to Messina bonfires blaze, 
And rockets rise and vivas fill the air ; 
And with the thunder in his aged ears, 
Surrounded by his cold-eyed cardinals, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 91 

Clutching his spiritual crown more close, 
Trembling with dotage, sits the grey-haired 

Pope, 
Anathematizing in the Vatican. \_Exit. 

Officer. 

Woe to the head on whom his curse shall fall, 
For in the day of judgment it shall be 
Better with Sodom and Gomorrah. Wait ! 
This is the twilight ; red will rise the dawn. 

Napoleon. 

Peace, friend; yet if it ease thy heart, speak on. 
I would to God, I did believe in God 
As thou dost. Twilight surely — 'tis indeed 
A twilight — and therein from their fair 
spheres 



92 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Kings shoot like stars. How many nights of 

late 
The heavens have troubled been with fiery- 
signs, 
With characters like monstrous hieroglyphs, 
And the aurora, brighter than the day 
And red as blood, has burnt from west to 
east. 

Officer. 

I do believe the melancholy air 
Is full of pain and portent. 



Napoleon. 

Would to God 
I had more faith in God, for in this work 
I fail to trace His hand ; but rather feel 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 93 

The nether-shock of earthquake everywhere 
Shaking old thrones and new, those rear'd on 

rock 
As well as those on sand. All darkens yet, 
And in that darkness, while with cheeks of 

snow 
The affrighted people gaze at one another, 
The Teuton still, mouthing of Deity, 
Works steadfastly to some mysterious end. 
My heart was never Rome's so much as 

now, 
Now, when she shares my cup of agony. 
Agony ! Is this agony ? then, indeed, 
All life is agony. 

Officer. 

Your Imperial Highness 
Is suffering ! Take comfort, Sire. 



94 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Napoleon. 

It is nought — 
Only a passing spasm at the heart — 
'Tis my disease, comrade ; 'tis my disease ! 
So leave me : it is late ; and I would rest. 

Officer. 
God in his gracious goodness give thee health. 

Napoleon. 

Pray that He may ; for am I deeply sick — 
Too sick for surgery — too sick for drugs — 
Too sick for man to heal. 'Tis a complaint 
Incident to our house ; and of the same 
Mine imperial uncle died. \_Exit Officer. 

France in the dust, 
With the dark Spectre of the Red above her ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 95 

Rome fallen ! Aye me, well may the face of 

heaven 
Burn like a fiery scroll. Had I but eyes 
To read whose name is written next for doom ! 
The Teuton's ? O the Serpent, that has bided 
His time so long, and now has stabbed so deep ! 
Would I might bruise his head before I die ! 

\Exit. 

Night. Napoleon sleeping. Chorus of 
Spirits. 

A Voice. 

What shapes are ye whose shades darken his 
rest this night ? 

Chorus. 

Cold from the grave we come, out of the dark 
to the light. 



96 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 



A Voice. 

Voices ye have that moan, and eyes ye have 

that weep. 
Ah, woe for him who feels such shadows 

round his sleep ! 



Chorus. 

Tho' thou wert buried and dead, still would 

we seek and find thee, 
Fly where thou wilt, thou shalt hear feet from 

the tomb behind thee. 
Sleep ? shall thy soul have sleep ? Nay, but 

it shall be shaken. 
Gather around him there, spirits of earth and 

air, trouble him till he awaken ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 97 

A Voice. 

Who in imperial raiment, darkly frowning, 

stand, 
Laurel-leaves in their hair, sceptred, yet sword 

in hand ? 

Another Voice. 

Who in their shadow looms, woman-eyed, 

woe-begone, 
And bares his breast to show the piteous 

wounds thereon ? 

Chorus. 

Peace, they are kings ; they are crown'd ; 

kings, tho' their realms have departed ; 
Realms of the grave they have, and they walk 

in the same weary-hearted. 
H 



98 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Sleep ? Did their souls have sleep ? Nay, for 

like his was their being. 
Gather around him there, spirits of earth and 

air, wake him to hearing and seeing. 

Spirit of Hortense. 

Woe ! O ye shades unblest, 
Leave ye my child to rest, 

Leave me here weeping. 
This night, at least, have grace, 
See, the poor weary face 

Child-like in sleeping. 

Spirit of Cesar. 

Greater than thou, I fell : thy day is o'er. 
Thou reap the world with swords ! thou wear 
the robe I wore ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 99 

Back to thy books and read again how, in his 

hour of pride, 
At the foot of Pompey's statue, slain by slaves, 

Imperial Caesar died. 

Spirit of Hortense. 

Woe ! From his bed depart. 
Ye who first taught his heart 

Bloody ambition. 
Back ! he is God's in sleep ; 
Ah, in his heart burn deep 

Pain and contrition. 

Spirit of Bonaparte. 

Greater than thou, I fell ; die, and give place. 
Thou take from my cold grave the glory and 
the grace ! 



IOO NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Thou rise victorious where I fell ! Back to 

thy books, thou blind ! 
Read how I watch'd the^ weary Sea, less vast 

than my imperial mind. 

Napoleon (in sleep). 

Dost thou too frown, dark Spirit of our 

house ? 
Scorn be thy meed for scorn. Thou hadst 

become 
A theme for nameless bards, a lullaby 
For country folk to rock their cradles with, 
A sound, a voice, an echo of a name 
Dying most melancholy. In my mouth 
Thy name became a trumpet once again, 
And woods and wilds, to earth's remotest 

peaks, 
Echoed " Napoleon." Cursed be the name, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 101 



Cursed be thou, this day ! . . . O mother ! 
mother ! 

Spirit of Hortense. 

Father in Heaven, they rise ! — 
Spirits with dreadful eyes 

Hither are creeping. 
Thrice on his brow I write 
Thy blessed Cross this night, 

Moaning and weeping. 

A Voice. 

What spirit art thou, with cold still smile and 
face like snow ? 

Spirit. 

Orsini ; and avenged. Too soon I struck the 
blow. 



102 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

A Voice. 

And thou, with bloody breast, and eyes that 
roll in pain ? 

Spirit. 
I am that Maximilian, miserably slain. 

A Voice. 

And ye, O shadowy things, featureless, wild, 
and stark ? 

Chorus. 

We are the nameless ones whom he hath 
slain in the dark ! 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 103 

A Voice. 

Ye whom this man hath doom'd, Spirits, are 
ye all there ? 

Chorus. 

Not yet ; we come, we come — we darken all 
the air. 

A Voice. 

O latest come, and what are ye ? Why do ye 
moan and call ? 

Chorus. 

O hush ! O hush ! we come to speak the 
bitterest curse of all. 

Hortexse. 

Woe ! — for the spirits wild, 
Woman and man and child, 



104 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Hither are creeping. 
Thrice on his brow I write 
Thy blessed Cross this night, 

Moaning and weeping. 

Chorus. 

Ours is the bitterest curse of all ; — for we 
Are Souls that perish'd, foully slain by thee. 
Ah ! would that thou hadst slain our bodies 
too, like theirs ! 
We ate of shame and sorrow till we ceased, 
We drank all poisonous things at thy foul 
feast — 
Back from the grave we come, with curses 

deep, not prayers. 

With Sin and Death our mothers' milk was 

sour, 
The womb wherein we grew from hour to hour 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 105 

Gathered pollution dark from the polluted 
frame — 
Beside our cradles naked Infamy- 
Caroused, and Lust sat smiling hideously — 
"We grew like evil weeds apace, and knew not 
shame. 

With incantations and with spells most 

rank, 
The fount of Knowledge where we might 
have drank, 
And learnt to love the taste, was hidden from 
our eyes ; 
And if we learn'd to spell out written 

speech, 
Thy slaves were by, and we had books to 
teach 
Falsehood and Filth and Sin, Blasphemies, 
Scoffs, and Lies. 



fo6 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

We drank of poison, ev'n as flowers drink 

dew; 
We ate and drank of poison till we grew 
Noxious, polluted, black, like that whereon 

we fed ; 
We never felt the light and the free wind — 
Sunless we grew, and deaf, and dumb, and 

blind- 
How should we dream of God, souls that were 

slain and dead ? 



Love, with her sister Reverence, passed 

our way 
As angels pass, unseen, but did not stay — 
We had no happy homes wherein to bid them 

dwell ; 
We turn'd from God's blue heaven with 

eyes of beast, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 107 

We heard alike the atheist and the priest, 
And both these lied alike to smooth our 
hearts for Hell. 

Of some, both Soul and Body died; of 

most, 
The Body fattened on, while the poor ghost, 
Prison'd from the sweet day, was withering 

in woe ; 
Some robed in purple quaff d their fatal 

cup, 
Some out of rubied goblets drank it up — 
We did not know God was ; but now, O God, 

we know. 

Ah woe, ah woe, for those thy sceptre 

swayed, 
Woe most for those whose bodies, fair 

arrayed, 



io8 NAPOLEON fallen: 

Insolent, sat at ease, smiled at thy feet of 
pride ; 
Woe for the harlots, with their painted 

bliss ! 
Woe for the red wine-oozing lips they kiss ! 
Woe for the Bodies that lived, woe for the 
Souls that died ! 

Lambs of thy flock, but oh ! not white and 

fair; 
Beasts of the field, tamed to thy hand, we 

were ; 
Not men and women— nay, not heirs to light 

and truth : 
Some fattening, ate and fed; some lay at 

ease; 
Some fell and lingered of a long disease ; 
But all look'd on the ground — beasts of the 

field forsooth. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 109 



It is too late — it is too late this night — 
To bid us live again in the fair light ; 
Back from the grave we come, with curses 
deep, not prayers. 
Ours is a darker doom than theirs, who died 
Strewing with blood the pathway of thy 
pride — 
Ah, would that thou hadst slain our bodies 
too, like theirs ! 

Semi-Chorus I, 

Tho' thou wert buried and dead, still would 

they seek thee and find thee. 
Fly where thou wilt thou shalt hear feet from 

the grave behind thee. 

HORTENSE. 

Woe ! woe ! woe ! 



IIO NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Semi-Chorus II. 
Ye who beheld dim light thro' the chink of 

the dungeon gleaming, 
And watch'd your shade 1 on the wall, till it 

took a sad friend's seeming ; 
Ye who in dark disguise fled from the doom 

and the danger, 
And dragging a patriot's chain died in the 

land of the stranger. 
Men whom he set aside to die like beasts in 

the traces ! 
"Women he set aside for the trade of polluting 

embraces ! 
Say, shall his soul have sleep ? or shall it be 

darkened and shaken ? 

Chorus. 
Gather around him there, spirits of earth and 
air, trouble him till he awaken. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. Ill 



Napoleon [awakening). 

Who's there ? "Who speaks ? — All silent. O 

how slowly 
Moveth the dark and melancholy night. 
I cannot rest — I am too sick at heart — 
I have had ill dreams. The inevitable 

Eyes 
Are watching, and the weary void of sleep 
Has voices strangely sad. 

[He rises, and paces the chamber. 

O those dark years 
Of Empire ! He who tames the tiger, and 

lies 
Pillow' d upon its neck in a lone cave, 
Is safer. Who could sleep on such a bed ? 
Mine eyes were ever dry of the sweet dew 



NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



God scatters on the lids of happy men ; 
Watching with fascinated gaze the orbs, 
Ring within ring of blank and bestial light, 
"Where the wild fury slept : seeking all arts 
To soothe the savage instinct in its throes 
Of passionate unrest ; with one hand holding 
Sweet things within my palm for it to lap, 
And with the other, held behind my back, 
Clutching the secret steel : oft, lest the thing 
Should fasten on its master, cunningly 
Turning its wrath against the shapes that 

moved 
Outside its splendid lair ; until at last, 
Let forth to the mad light of War, it sprang 
Shrieking, and sought to rend me. O thou 

beast ! 
Art thou so wild this day ? and dost thou 

thirst 
To fix on thine imperial ruler's throat ? 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 113 

Why, I have bidden thee " down/' and thou 

hast crouch'd, 
Tamely as any hound ! Thou shalt crouch yet, 
And bleed with shamefuller stripes ! 

Let me be calm, 
Not bitter. 'Tis too late for bitterness. 
Yet I could gnaw my heart to think how 

France 
Hath faird me ! nay, not France, but rather 

those 
Whom to high offices and noble seats 
In France's name I raised. I bought their 

souls — 
What soul can power not buy ? — and, having 

lost 
The blessed measure of all human truth, 
Being soulless, these betrayed me ; yea, 

became 



114 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

A brood of lesser tigers, hungering 

With their large eyes on mine. I did not 

build 
My throne on sand; no, no, — on Lies and 

Liars, 
Weaker than sand a thousandfold ! 

In this 
I did not work for evil. Though my means 
Were dark and vile perchance, the end I 

sought 
Was France's weal, and underneath my care 
She grew as tame as any fatted calf. 
I never did believe in that stale cry 
Raised by the newsman and the demagogue, 
Tho' for mine ends I could cry " Liberty ! " 
As loud as any man. The draff of men 
Are as mere sheep and kine, with heads held 

down 
Grazing, or resting blankly ruminant. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. J 15 



These must be tended, must be shepherded. 
But Frenchmen are as wild things scarcely 

tamed, 
Brute-like yet fierce, mad too with some few 

hours 
Of rushing freely with an angry roar. 
These must be aw^ed and driven. By a 

scourge 
Dripping with sanguine drops of their own 

blood, 
I awed them : then I drove them : then in time 
I tamed them. Fool ! deeming them wholly 

mine, 
I sought to snatch a little brief repose ; 
But w T ith a groan they found me, and I woke ; 
And, since they seem'd to suffer pain, I said, 
" Loosen the yoke a little," and 'twas done, 
And they could raise their heads and gaze at 

me; 



it6 napoleon fallen: 

And the wild hunger deepen' d in their eyes, 
While fascinated on my throne I sat, 
Forcing a melancholy smile of peace. 
O had I held the scourge in my right hand ! 
Tighten'd the yoke instead of loosening ! 
It had not been so ill with me as now. 
But Pity found me with her sister Fear, 
And lured me. He who sitteth on a throne 
Should have no counsellors who come in 

tears ; 
But rather that still voice within his brain, 
Imperturbable as his own cold eyes, 
And viewless as his coldly flowing blood ; 
Rather a heart as strong as the great heart 
Driving the hot blood thro' a lion's thews ; 
Rather a will that moves to its desire 
As steadfast as the silent-footed cloud. 
What peevish humour did my mother mix 
With that important ichor of our race 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 117 

Which, unpolluted, filled mine uncle's veins ? 
He lash'd the world's Kings to his triumph- 
car, 
And sat like marble while the fiery wheels 
Dript blood beneath him : tho' the live earth 

shriek'd 
Below him, he was calm, and, like a god, 
Cold to the eloquence of human tears, 
Cold to the quick, cold as the light of stars, 
Cold as the hand of Death on the damp 

brow, 
Cold as Death brooding on a battle-field 
In the white after-dawn, — from west to east, 
Royal he moved as the red wintry sun. 
He never flatter d Folly at his feet ; 
He never sought to syrup Infamy ; 
He, when the martyrs curst him, drew around 

him 
The purple of his glory, and passed on 



Il8 NAPOLEON FALLEN*. 



Indifferently, like Olympian Jove. 

There was no weak place in the steel he 

wore, 
Where woman's tongues might reach his 

mighty heart 
As they have reach'd at mine. O had I kept 
A heart of steel, a heart of adamant ; 
Had I been deaf to clamour and the peal 
Of peevish fools ; had I for one strong hour 
Conjured mine uncle's soul to mix with 

mine, 
Sedan had never slain me ! I am lost 
By the damn'd implements mine own hands 

wrought — 
Things that were made as slavish tools of 

peace, 
Never as glittering weapons meet for war. 
He never stoop'd to use such peaceful tools ! 
But, for all uses, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. II9 

Made the sworcl serve him — yea, for sceptre 

and scythe ; 
Nay more, for Scripture and for counsellor. 

Yet he too fell. Early or late, all fall. 
No fruit can hang for ever on the tree. 
Daily the tyrant and the martyr meet 
Naked at Death's door, with the fatal mark, 
Both brows being branded. Doth the world 

then slay 
Only its anarchs ? Doth the lightning flash 
Smite Ccesar and spare Brutus ? Nay, by 

heaven ! 
Rather the world keeps for its paracletes 
Torture more subtle and more piteous doom 
Than it dispenses to its torturers. 
Tiberius, with his foot on the world's neck, 
Smileth his cruel smile and growcth gray, 
Half dead already with the weight of years, 



120 NAPOLEON FALLEN; 

Drinketh the death he is too frail to feel, 
While in his noon of life the Man Divine 
Hath died in anguish at Jerusalem. 
\He opens a Life of Jesus and reads. A long pause. 

Here too the Teuton works, crafty and slow, 

Anatomizing, gauging, questioning, 

Till that fair Presence which redeem'd the 

world 
Dwindles into a phantom and a name. 
Shall he slay Kings, and spare the King of 

Kings ? 

In her fierce madness, France denied her God; 

But the still Teuton doth destroy his God, 

Coldly as he outwits an enemy. 

Yet doth he keep the name upon his lips, 

- 
And, coldly dedicating the dull deed 

To the abstraction he hath christen'd God, 

To the creation of his cogent brain, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 121 



Conjures against the blessed Nazarene, 

That pallid apparition masculine, 

That shining orb hemm'd in with clouds of 

flesh; 
Till, darken'd with the woe of his own words, 
The fool can turn to Wilhelm's wooden face 
And Bismarck's crafty eyes, and see therein 
Human regeneration, or at least 
The Teuton's triumph mightier than Christ's. 
Lie there, Iconoclast ! Thou art thrice a fool, 
Who, having nought to set within its place 
But civic doctrine and a naked sword, 
Would tear from out its niche the piteous bust 
Of Him whose face was Freedom's morning 

star. 

[Takes up a second Book, and reads. 

Mark, now, how speciously Theology, 
Leaving the broken fragments of the Life 



122 NAPOLEON FALLEN 



Where the dull Teuton's hand hath scatter' d 

them, 
Takes up the cause in her high fields of air. 
" Darkness had lain upon the earth like blood, 
And in the darkness human things had 

shriek'd 
And felt for God's soft hand, and agonised. 
But, overhead, the awful Spirit heard 
Yet stirred not, on His throne. Then lastly, 

One 
Dropt like a meteor stone from suns afar, 
And stirred and stretch'd out hands, and lived, 

and knew 
That He indeed had dropt from suns afar, 
That He had fallen from the Fathers breast, 
Where He had slumber' d for eternities ; 
Hither in likeness of a man He came — 
He, Jesus, wander' d forth from heaven and 

said, 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 123 



a l Lo, I, the deathless one, will live and die ! 
Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer — 
Our point of contact shall be suffering, 
There will we meet, and ye will hear my 

voice ; 
And my low voice shall echo on thro' time, 
And one salvation, proved in bloody tears, 
Be the salvation of humanity/" 

Ah, old Theology, thou strikest home ! 

" Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer" — 

Says't thou ? Did He then quaff His cup of 

tears 
Freely, who might have dash'd it down, and 

ruled ? 
The world was ready with an earthly crown, 
And yet He wore it not. Ah, He was wise ! 
Had He but sat upon a human throne, 
With all the kingdom's beggars at His feet, 



124 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



And all its coffers open at His side, 

He had died more shameful death, yea, He 

had fallen 
Even as the Caesars. Rule the world with 

Love ? 
Tame savage human nature with a kiss ? 
Turn royal cheeks for the brute mob to smite ? 
He knew men better, and He drew aside, 
Ordain'd to do and suffer, not to reign. 



My good physician bade me search in books 

For solace. Can I find it ? Verily, 

From every page of all man's hand hath 

writ 
A dark face frowns, a voice moans " Vanity ! " 
There is one Book— one only— that for ever 
Passeth the understanding and appeaseth 
The miserable hunger of the heart — 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 125 



Behold it — written with the light of stars 
By God in the beginning. 

[Looks forth. A starry night. 

I believe 
God is, but more I know not, save but this, 
He passeth not as men and systems pass, 
For while all change, the Law by which they 

change 
Survives, and is for ever, being God. 
Our sin, our loss, our misery, our death, 
Are but the shadows of a dream : the hum 
Within our ears, the motes within our eyes ; 
Death is to us a semblance and an end, 
But is as nothing to that central Law 
Whereby we cannot die. 

Yonder blue dome, 
Gleaming with meanings mystically wrought, 
Hath been from the beginning, and shall be 



126 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Until the end. How many awe-struck eyes 
Have look'd and spelt one word — the name of 

God, 
And calFd it as they listed, Law, Fate, Change, 
And marveird for its meaning till they died ; 
And others came and stood upon their graves, 
And read the same, and marvelling too, gave 

place. 
The Kings of Israel watch'd it with wild orbs, 
Madden'd, and cried the Name, and drew the 

sword. 
Above the tented plain of Troy it bent 
After the sun of day had set in blood. 
The superstitious Roman look'd by night 
And trembled. All these faded phantom- 
like, 
And lo ! where it remaineth, watch'd with 

eyes 
As sad as any of those this autumn night, — 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 127 



The Higher Law writ with the light of Stars 
By God in the beginning . . . 

Let me sleep ! 
Or I shall gaze and gaze till I grow wild, 
And never sleep again. Too much of God 
Maketh the heart sick. Come then forth, thou 

charm, 
Thou silent spell wrung from the blood-red 

flower, 
With power to draw the curtains of the soul 
And shut the inevitable Eyes away. 

\_Drinks a sleeping draught and lies down. 

O mother, at thy knees I said a prayer — 
Lead me not into temptation, and, O God, 
Deliver me from evil. Is it too late 
To murmur it this night ? This night, O 

God, 
Whatever Thou art and whereso'er Thou art, 



128 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

This night at least, when I am sick and fallen, 

Deliver me from evil ! 

\He sleeps. 

Chorus of Citizens. 

O thou with features dire, 
Who crouchest at our gates this bloody day, 
With God's Name on thy forehead burnt in 
fire, 
What art thou ? Speak, and say ! 

What is thy kindred, monster ? Who thy 
sire ? 
Whose word wilt thou obey ? 

God never made so black a thing as 

thou, 
God never wrote that name upon thy 
brow; 
Thou art too foul for God, to whom we 
pray. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 129 

Fatal thou broodest on our hearths, with eyes 
Glazed in hunger only blood can sate. 
Begone ! — within our breasts the sick heart 

dies 
To see thee crouch and wait : 
O blasphemy of nature, at our cries 

God cometh soon or late. 
Famine, and Thirst, and Horror at thy back 
Lie moaning ; Fire and Ruin mark thy track ; 
Begone, and die, thou thing of Sin and 
Hate! 
Die now, ere once again 
The sharp sob of the slain 
Goes up the azure voids, and knocks at 
Heaven's Gate. 

Chorus. 

Christ shall arise. 
Power and its vanity, 
K 



130 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Pride's black insanity, 
Lust and its revelry, 
Shall, with war's devilry, 
Pass from humanity : 
Christ shall arise. 



Semi-Chorus I. 

Kings shall pass like shadows from His 
whiteness, 
Swords be turn'd to scythes and reap the 
wheat. 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Slaves that crawl'd round thrones shall fear 
His brightness, 
Thrones shall be as dust around His ' 
feet. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 131 



Chorus of Citizens. 

How long, O Lord, how long, 
Shall we linger, frail and feeble as we 
are ? 
Thou art slow who shouldst be swift to 

right our wrong, 
Thou wert promised in our very cradle 
song: 
Thou hast come and gone above us like a 
Star! 
Tis a story of old times that Thou art 
strong ; 
But Thou comest not, Thou comest not from 
far: 
And the cruel fall upon us in their throng, — 
And we bleed beneath the tramping feet of 
War. 



132 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 



Semi-Chorus I. 

Peace ! He shall arise ; be dumb and duteous ; 
Listen, hush your wild hearts, and be wise. 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Sin shall look and die : He is so beauteous ; 
Make your spirits pure to bear His eyes. 



Chorus of the Dead. 

Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie, 

We hear the sound, and our spirits cry ; 

As we sleeping lie in the Lord's own Breast, 

Calm, so calm, for the place is blest, 

We, who died that this might be, 

Souls of the great, and wise, and free ; 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 133 

Souls that sung, and souls that sighed, 
Souls that pointed to God and died ; 
Souls of martyrs, souls of the wise ; 
Souls of women with weeping eyes ; 
Souls whose graves like waves of the sea 

Cover the world from west to east ; 
Souls whose bodies ached painfully, 

Till they broke 'to prophetic moan and 
ceased ; 
Souls that sleep in the gentle night, 
We hear the cry and we see the light. 
Did we die in vain ? did we die in vain ? 
Ah ! that indeed were the bitterest pain ! 
But no, but no, 'twere a Father's guilt 
If a drop of our blood was vainly spilt. 
Not a life, nay, not a breath, 
But killed some shape of terror and death ; — 
And we see the light and we bless the cry, 
Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie. 



134 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Blest are ye who followed Him and feared not, 
Yea, into the dark shadow of the tomb ! 



Semi-Chorus II. 

Woe for those who saw ye and revered not ; 
Better they were formless in the womb ! 



Chorus. 

» 

Christ shall arise. 
Scorning all vanity, 
Sweetness and sanity, 
Meekness and lowliness, 
Shall to love's holiness 
Shepherd humanity. 

Christ shall arise. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 135 

Chorus of Citizens. 

He cometh late, this God ! 
Promised for countless years, He cometh late. 
Where shall He dwell ? The cities of our 
state • 

Are level with the sod. 
Shall He upbuild them then ? Meantime we 
wait, 

•And see black footsteps where our mar- 
tyrs trod. 
He cometh late, forsooth He cometh late, 

This promised Lord our God ! 
Nor do we see the earth that He will claim, 

Is riper yet than when He went away. 
There are more ruins only, and the same 

Are multiplied each day. 
All lands are bloody, and a crimson flame 

Eats Hope's poor heart away. 



136 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 

Where shall we turn for peace ? whom shall 

we trust for stay ? 
The anarchs of the world still sit and sway 
The hearts of men to evil; — Hunger and 

Thirst 
Moan at the palace door; and birds of 

prey 
Still scream above the harvest as at first. 
Should He then come at all, 
This God on whom ye call, 
How should He dwell on earth? would He 

not find it curst ? 

Semi-Chorus I. 

Nay, for the Lamb shall wrap the world in 
whiteness ; 
Nay, for the wise shall make it fair and 
sweet. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 137 

Slaves and fools shall perish in the bright- 
ness ! 
Thrones shall be as dust around His feet ! 

Semi-Chorus II. 

Peace ! ye make a useless lamentation. 

Peace ! ye wring your hands o'er things of 
stone. 
Comfort ! ye shall find a habitation 

Fairer than the fairest overthrown. 

Final Chorus, or Epode. 

Comfort, O true and free, 
Soon shall there rise for ye 
A CITY fairer far than all ye plan ; 

Built on a rock of strength, 

v 

It shall arise at length, 
Stately and fair and vast, the CITY meet for 
man ! 



138 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Towering to yonder skies, 

Shall the fair City rise, 
In the sweet dawning of a day more pure : 

House, mart, and street and square, 

Yea, and a Fane for prayer, 
Fair, and yet built by hands, strong, for it 
shall endure. 



In the fair City then, 
Shall walk white-robed men, 
Wash'd in the river of peace that watereth it; 
Woman with man shall meet 
Freely in mart and street, 
At the great council-board woman with man 
shall sit. 

* 

Hunger and Thirst and Sin 
Shall never pass therein ; 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 139 



Fed with pure dews of love, children shall 
grow ; 
Nought shall be bought and sold, 
Nought shall be given for gold, 
All shall be bright as day, all shall be white 
as snow. 

There, on the fields around, 
All men shall till the ground, 
Corn shall wave yellow, and bright rivers 
stream ; 
Daily, at set of sun, 
All, when their work is done, 
Shall watch the heavens yearn down and the 
strange starlight gleam. 

In the fair City of men, 
All shall be silent then, 
While on a reverent lute, gentle and low, 
Some holy Bard shall play 



140 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 

Ditties divine, and say- 
Whence those that hear have come, whither 
in time they go. 

No man of blood shall dare 

Wear the white mantle there ; 
No man of lust shall walk in street or mart ; 

Yet shall the magdalen 

Walk with the citizen ; 
Yet shall the sinner grow gracious and pure of 
heart. 

Now, while days come and go, 

Doth the fair City grow, 
Surely its stones are laid in sun and moon. 

Wise men and pure prepare 

Ever this City fair. 
Comfort, O ye that weep : it shall arise full 
soon. 



A LYRICAL DRAMA. 141 

When, stately, fair, and vast, 

It doth uprise at last, 
Who shall be King thereof, say, O ye wise I — 

When the last blood is spilt, 

When the fair City is built, 
Unto the throne thereof, a Monarch shall 
arise. 

Hearken, O pure and free, 

When 'tis upbuilt for ye, 
Out of the grave He shall arise again ; 

He whose blest soul did plan 

This the fair city of man, 
In his white robes of peace, Christ shall 
arise, and reign. 



VIRTUE AND CO., PRINTERS, CITY ROAD, LONDON. 



WORKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



Just -published, crown 8vo, price 6s. 

THE BOOK OF ORM 

A PRELUDE TO THE EPIC. 
By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



" The pieces are masterly. . . . There are passages which may challenge 
comparison with the work of any living poet." — Literary World. 

" We think some of the work is, of its kind, as high as any the world has 
yet seen. . . . Our object is chiefly to call careful attention to a volume 
of poetry which, with some faults, is almost surcharged with beauty and 
significance, wonderfully fine in workmanship, and entitled to the serious 
study of readers who really care for poetry." — Illustrated Times. 

" A book which will most certainly leave an impression upon the 
younger minds of the present generation. . . . There is a sustained 
beauty and simplicity. . . . The feeling is both deep and pure — the power 
is undoubted." — Westminster Review. 

"The whole section, 'Songs of Corruption,' is exquisite; but the 
1 Dream of the World without Death ' seems to us to stand alone for 
tenderness, for purity, and the trembling beauty of human affection find- 
ing strange satisfaction in the very peacefulness of gradual decay." — 
British Quarterly Review. 

" The wild, and tender, and ghostly treatment of the emblems of Nature, 
as if she were, not what Wordsworth and his school found or made her, 
but rather a mighty and mystic phantom scaring us with strange hiero- 
glyphs of. infinite meaning. . . . Taken as a whole, — and we must remem- 
ber that the author himself asserts that this book is not only still partly 
unfinished, but, when finished, only a prelude to another poem, which will 
embody more fully his conception of life, — the ' Book of Orm ' is certainly 
a striking attempt to combine a quasi-Ossianic treatment of Nature with 
a philosophy of rebellion rising into something like a Pantheistic vision of 
the necessity of evil." — Spectator. 

" Mr. Buchanan's genius has struck root into a new form of life and 
feeling — subtle, delicate, and marvellously fair. . . . We shall look for- 
ward with intense interest to the ' Epic of Orm,' which is already promised. 
If the prelude to the feast is so delicate and various, the feast itself must 
prove surpassingly rich and delicious." — Nonconformist. 



"We are among the warmest admirers of Mr. Buchanan's genius, the 
dawn of which we were not slow to discover and announce in these 
columns. Nor do we for a moment dispute the remarkable power and 
beauty to be found in 'The Book ot Orm.' But it appears to us to want 
healthy feeling. . . . The sonnets are very grand, with magnificent bits of 
description dipped in a gloomy light of feeling and passion ; and the last 
poem — ' The Vision of the Man Accurst ' — is really stupendous. Here, 
though .the theme is big with the most awful issues, and raised to the 
utmost peaks of daring speculation, the meaning is perfectly clear and 
straightforward ; and nothing can be nobler than the intention, the moral, 
and the way in which both are worked out." — Daily News. 

" Musical intonation, graceful expression, fit choice of forcible and sig 
nificant words, perfect command of rhythm and rhyme — all the literary 
and mechanical characteristics of the best poetry — abound here. But the 
claims of the book are considerably higher. . . . ' The Book of Orm ' may 
be broadly described as an indignant half-articulate protest against the 
disguised and distorted shape in which Man has so often presented God 
to his fellow-men. The indignation reaches a wild and tempestuous, 
almost, it might seem, a blasphemous pitch, in a series of powerful com- 
positions entitled ' Coruisken Sonnets,' singularly clear in their utterance 
and close in their sequence. . . . Of those visions there are two — the 
' Dream of the World without Death ' and the ' Vision of the Man 
Accurst ' — which for power and beauty deserve to rank with the highest 
English poetry of the present or the past generation. In the first there is 
a marvellous blending of pathos, profound sympathy, and powerful word- 
painting. ... In the second poem there is a majesty and a beauty, a 
teuderness and deep teaching of love, which show Mr. Buchanan at the 
very best and noblest manifestation of his undoubted poetic genius. . . . 
* The Book of Orm ' is a volume to be read and re-read with pleasure and 
potent teaching ; and parts of it will long survive the generation which 
saw its birth." — Daily Telegraph. 



Crown 8vo, Revised Edition, price bs. 

LONDON POEMS. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



" ' London Poems ' being, as their title denotes, the fruit of inspiration 
derived from those, to unpoetic souls, most hopelessly prosaic streets, 
which, to Mr. Buchanan and others like him, gifted with a sight beyond 
that of the eyes, are full of such poetry as may be vainly sought among 
the half-burnt ashes of the most glorious past. This poetry Mr. Buchanan 
can not only realise for himself, but draw out for the benefit of those less 
gifted with that keen and passionate insight. His versification, too, 
flowing and musical as it is, has just that touch of ruggedness about it 
which suits a theme the outward semblances of which have so little in 
common with the beauty of its inner reality ; and possibly, were we asked 



to point to any special token of his claim to a place in the front rank of 
poets, we could hardly do better than draw attention to the subtle instinct 
by which a stray word, or expression, or turn of a phrase, is made to 
temper the stately rhythm of the verse to the homely character of the 
theme, and that so delicately as never to jar the ear with the slightest 
hint of incongruity." — Church and State Review. 

" He has the rare power of treating such subjects without making them 
too horrible, or, which is far worse, sweetening them till they are nauseous 
as well as shocking. He is quite aware that the transcript of misery and 
suffering may be too literal : thus he has given in his ' Edward Crowhurst ' 
rather a softened than an exaggerated version of the actual history of poor 
John Clare. Occasionally he shows in his poems the critical side of his 
nature : the following remarkable verses prove that he has not studied 
Nature, either among hills or in cities, without pausing to contemplate 
the reflex action of his studies on his own mind. . . . Mr. Buchanan is 
always himself ; never a mere imitator, too versatile to be genuine and 
original. He must be allowed a high rank among our living poets." — 
Guardian. 

" To do this was a chivalrous thing for a poet. It is easy to speak 
grandly of the grander themes, but it is proverbially difficult to be dignified 
about the undignified topics. Wordsworth has often enough come to the 
verge of baby- talk in this direction. Buchanan has gone in the same 
direction, described realities, and made them touching and memorable. 
... It would be a good thing if this poem (' Liz ') set men to simplify the 
marriage laws, and to make the expense of marriage nominal to the 
poorest. ' ' — Evangelical Witness* 

"The 'London Poems' thus introduced are thoroughly original in 
conception, have much true dramatic power, and disclose a wonderful 
knowledge of the human heart. Some have the deepest pathos ; some 
are cheerful and beautiful exceedingly ; and one or two are almost over- 
whelming by their very simplicity and sad truth." •- Nonconformist . 

" Few writers so wholly unsensational, and whose poetry owes none of 
its popularity to the weird and wild obscurity of its thought nor to the 
glitter of its diction, have established a reputation equal to Mr. Buchanan 
in so short a time as that which has passed since his first acknowledged 
publication, ' Undertones,' took the reading and poetry-loving public by 
surprise. . . . The exquisite simplicity of these poems has rarely been 
surpassed. . . . Here, if anywhere, is, if we mistake not, true poetry, the 
outpourings of a heart instinct with love and sympathy for its fellows, 
which sees the image of its Maker in every human form, and recognises a 
brother's claim in every soul, however stained by sin, or burdened by the 
trials of life. A brave volume of poetry, the heart utterances stern and 
yet tender of a true poet." — Churchman. 

"London Poems' will win him a world-wide fame, and lift him high 
into the ranks of British poets. It will possess an interest, too, drawn 
from the boldness of its design, which can only be enhanced by a perusal 
of its contents. ... A rich production, based on simple materials. . . . 
As a poet combining simplicity with power, and a wonderful talent for 
giving to his subjects the form of reality and life, Mr. Buchanan is un- 
surpassed. Among contemporaneous or recent writers he is unequalled." 
— Court Circular. 

"We may look upon his recent volume as conclusive evidence of the 
extent and nature of his power, and approach if from what point we will, 



it is difficult to avoid being struck with the wealth that is displayed on 
every side. ... Its contents are as noteworthy for gentleness and worth 
of moral, as for tenderness, delicacy, and poetical grace ; and it is im- 
possible to read the stories it contains without being struck with the poet ? s 
reverential love of nature, his admirable power of poetical expression, and 
his deep insight into the most secret corners of the human heart." — 
Sunday Times. 

"What Wordsworth called 'the power of hills' is on him. . . . Even 
when, as in one or two of the poems, and perhaps the finest of them, the 
main subject of the poem is the emotion of the person supposed to be 
speaking — even then the emotion expressed is not self-respecting, and 
therefore hard and argumentative, as generally with Browning, but is all 
centred on some external object of love and solicitude. Thus the two 
poems called 'Liz' and 'Nell,' the finest perhaps in the volume, and, in 
their way, some of the finest poems of the present generation, are the 
expressions of the feelings of two poor London women, the one dying after 
the birth of her first child — born not in wedlock, but still in what the 
woman regarded as wedlock, with Joe, a costermonger ; the other, such as 
the woman who lived with poor Wright (who was hanged for murder) might 
have spoken, had he been hanged for the murder of some one other than 
herself, instead of, as it happened to be in that case, that she herself was the 
victim of his habit of drinking. We do not mean, of course, that either of 
these beautiful poems, — poems unique in their mixture of city-life realism 
with lyrical beauty, — could actually have been spoken by the women whom 
they delineate. ' Art,' as Mr. Buchanan says, with a somewhat different 
drift, in the very fine poem called ' London, 1864,' ' works her end not by 
giving, but by cruelly taking away ;' and she has taken away accordingly 
from the bizarre language in which these poor creatures would probably 
have endeavoured to clothe the thoughts that arose in them, all that hid > 
instead of really expressing, those thoughts, and left two poems such as 
we should not find it easy to match in any language, for making us see — 

' Flowing beneath the blackness of the streets, 
The current of sublimer, sweeter life, 
Which is the source of human smiles and tears, 
And melodised, becomes the strength of song.' 

" Mr. Buchanan takes as his motto Goethe's fine lines ; and nobly, on 
the whole, does he work out the idea so often reiterated in our generation, 
so seldom successfully applied, at least in poetry. No volume of poems 
has appeared for many years in London, which so certainly announces a 
true poetic fame." — Spectator. 

" The interest roused by these domestic dramas is never local and 
narrow, but rather human and broad. What appears to have struck 
Mr. Buchanan in the tragedy of London life, is the sin into which poor 
men and women fall from habit, from necessity, from affection — not from 
vicious desire ; and to this error in the passions, which is seldom or never 
a misleading of the passions, he gives a singularly intense and tragic 
utterance . . . while he never tampers with the sin and shame, the poor 
human frailties get such hearing for themselves, before just and true men, 
as they might never gain from their own halting powers of speech. It 
surely is a gain for human nature when genius puts a new interpretation 
on the things which seem amiss. . . . This service of humanity against 
itself (so to say) is one of the highest ministries on earth." — Athenceum. 

" One of the boldest experiments that has been attempted in modern 
poetry — the boldest certainly since Wordsworth dared to strike precedents 



in the face, and sing of subjects which had been almost wholly neglected 
in a language which many of the critical oracles hated and despised. We 
suspect that Mr. Buchanan's experiment will be regarded as far more 
audacious than that of Wordsworth. . . . Most bravely has he sung, but 
has he sung well, truly, and beautifully ? These are the questions to be 
solved ; and those who have read his poems from the beginning will 
readily acknowledge that they contain a most satisfactory answer. . . . 
He enters the city, and, heedless of many warning voices which mutter of 
failure, he grapples with some of the most profoundly tragic phases of 
modern life — sinful, miserable, hopeless phases which the daintier muse 
would shudder even to name. But of all living poets Mr. Buchanan is, 
we think, the most courageous and uncowardly. In a moral point of 
view, indeed, his boldness amounts to a distinct originality. This, too, 
not merely because it is unique, but because it is allied to that kind ot 
intense earnestness which springs from a deep sense of the value of human 
rectitude and human purity. . . . He seems to have got language and 
imagination thoroughly under the government of art. He has conquered 
conventionality, and can look life in all its phases straight in the face, 
without losing faith in human nature, or reverence for what is divine and 
holy. These are conquests which are indispensable to the poet, and which 
the highest poets alone can thoroughly make." . . . — Glasgow Daily 
Herald. 

" They are in their subject so pathetic — so repelling, one might almost 
say ; in their realism so pre-Raphaelite, and yet in their poetic treatment 
so delicately and tenderly artistic, that one cannot choose but wonder and 
admire and be sad over them. . . . There is a deep human interest at the 
heart of nearly all Mr. Buchanan's poems which would give them strength 
to live and move even if there were less of the genuine spirit of song in 
them than there actually is. This volume will make its mark. Once 
opened, it is not easily to be laid aside ; once read, it is not to be for- 
gotten."— rMoming Star. 

u * London Poems ' we can neither analyse nor deseribe, simply for want 
of space. But the design of the poet — a most noble and beautiful design 
— becomes distinctly visible as soon as we have got over the first impression 
of wonder at the largeness of his intelligence, his power of dramatic indi- 
vidualisation (so to speak), the beneficent daring with which he paints, the 
generous humanity of his painting, and the originality of his music. . . . 
The writings of Mr. Buchanan, however, present to the most careful, as 
well as to the most superficial observation, every note or characteristic 
of the true poet ; and when we observe how flexible and deep are his 
sympathies with all that is human (take * Attorney Sneak,' ' Liz,' ' Nell,' 
and 'The Starling'), we may well slide into the use of the adjective 
' alarming,' in speaking of such a poet. If this is only the ' spring ' of the 
arch, what is its curve to be ? We may well rejoice, meanwhile, in the 
prospect that we are to have a very great poet." — Illustrated Times. 

" Mr. Buchanan, in his ' London Poems,' has won a nobler crown, 
watered with human tears. Every story that he tells appeals to the heart, 
and truth speaks in every line. To attempt to sing the wrong and suffering 
of the poor is nobler, we believe, than to tinkle Apollo's own lyre. But to 
sing them with successful power is an achievement indeed. Extracts can 
do no justice to the book ; but we make a few quotations, rather for the 
sake of our readers, who may be attracted by such crumbs to a rich feast. 
One of the finest poems, 'Liz,' is full of gems. What a depth of sad 
philosophy there is in the words of the poor coster-girl, true to death to 
the man who is a husband to her ! . . . 'Nell ' is anothei voice oi poverty 



like 'Liz,' stirring- the inmost heart. 'Langley Lane,' and the 'Linnet,' 
are charming city idyls; and ' Attorney Sneak,' and the 'Starling,' are 
fine satires — the last that strangest satire, a sorrowful one. The ' Little 
Milliner ' is a pure, wholesome love-tale that is simply delicious. To sum 
the matter up, we assert — and such an assertion would not be incon- 
siderately printed in this journal — that Mr. Buchanan's ' London Poems ' 
are worthy of a place in the heart with the ' Song of the Shirt ' and the 
' Bridge of Sighs.' " — Fun. 

" These ' London Poems,' and the poems which have preceded them 
from the same pen, are notable contributions to the poetical literature of 
our age. Their author shows independence and originality, and has, 
besides, a high sense of his vocation, which reveals itself in the purpose 
and spirit of everything he writes. It is because they picture what is 
beautiful and what is terrible in the hard life which so many thousands of 
our neighbours have allotted to them, that we think so highly of these 
poems. It is no small thing to find one so gifted deliberately setting him- 
self to the study of what most people think is almost wholly unlovable and 
making that the subject of song. The success attained is altogether 
deserved." — Working Man. 

" The poet does noble work in the cause of suffering humanity, when 
out of all that is on the surface repulsive in poverty, and base and brutal in 
ignorance, he extracts the redeeming goodnesses, and shows the great 
human heart still at work where, to the sight of the dull surface spectator, 
there is savagery, and squalor, and moral death. There is no danger in such 
teachings as are conveyed to the world in the utterance of a true genius 
and a Christian soul, let them be of the basest, the lowest of God's creatures 
that ever breathed. . . . He will live, we trust, to hear thanks given to him 
from far and wide ; for his stories of London byways are sweet, sad sermons 
(unlike most sermons formally preached from pulpits), that will touch the 
hearts of men and women, and call up generous tears and teach charity 
of thought to many who have been wont to pass by lanes and courts with 
averted face, deeming them only foul abiding-places of unmixed wicked- 
ness." — Lloyd's Newspaper. 

" He has seen that underlying all that is dull and prosaic in ordinary 
London life, there is an element of the truest romance ; that even amidst 
its scenes of degradation and wretchedness, there are played out dramas 
marked by the grandest passion, and full of the most tragic interest ; and 
he has felt that the poet is fulfilling his own high mission when, by the 
portraiture of such scenes he awakens the feelings of the more favoured 
half of society on behalf of those whose sins they brand with severest 
reprobation, and whose sorrows they rarely seek to comprehend or relieve. 
This is the end which he has evidently sought in the exquisite poems which 
make up the greater part of this volume. They are beautiful in their con- 
ceptions of character and life, in the varied images by which they are 
studded, in the homage which they everywhere render to real goodness, 
but beautiful above all in the natural and tender pathos by which they are 
characterised throughout." — Patriot. 

" However unrefined, his personages are never offensive, prosaic, or 
commonplace at the moment when he allows us to see them, whatever they 
may be at other times. Simple and few as may be his incidents, the poet 
generally selects them so that they shall be such as to extract Irom them 
the very essence and aroma of the characters brought into play ; the tragic, 
pathetic, lovable, or pitiable elements lying down at the root of the simplest 
and most ordinary natures. And in the person of one whose perception is 
rendered sensible and delicate by deep sympathy or interest, he brings out 



all the subtler features and manners of the situation with care and fineness 
of touch. . . . One more remark we must make — that the moral atmo- 
sphere of this book seems, to us, thoroughly healthy, though there is no 
preaching in it; and the morality is not pharisaic or merely conventional. 
But we rise from the perusal of it with larger, kindlier, less artificial, and 
more hopeful views of our common nature, because we have been looking 
at it through the eyes of one who sees deep and truly. . . . We record our 
conviction that if Mr. Buchanan writes no more he will have permanently 
enriched English literature by much that he has already accomplished." — 
British Quarterly Review. 

"The realistic treatment is exacting in its demands down to the smallest 
details, and the temptation is to a spurious realism, to ' the truth that looks 
the truth' (to use a fine phrase of Mr. Buchanan's apart from its meaning). 
Mr. Buchanan seizes upon a form of life, and strives to reproduce it, as he 
sees it, with the sincerity which a great writer insists upon as the very life 
and soul of literature. The forms of life upon which he seizes are of course 
determined by his sympathies, and these have been profoundly stirred to 
pity and to indignation by the massive misery of London life. In ' Liz,' 
and 'Nell,' and 'Jane Lewson,' he seized upon three typical forms of that 
misery growing out of poverty, crime, and what may be called repression 
— a fearful and unestimated source of suffering always most dense in the 
crush of cities. But then, says the idealist, why does he so often seize 
on what is unlovely and painful ? But has he not striven to wring out of 
them a nobler beauty, a higher delight ? There are thousands of such lives 
as those of ' Liz ' and ' Nell ' in London. They are facts, and as such we 
cannot get rid of them. We must regard them somehow. We may take 
them hardly and coldly, frown at their sin, and remain unmoved at their 
misery, and call our callosity conscience: or, more degrading still, we 
may take them lightly and carelessly, and pass them by on the other side, 
with a smile and a shrug. . . . That he has phrased the truths of this life 
boldly and made them beautiful we feel profoundly." . . . — Scotsman. 



Enlarged Edition , 6s. 

UNDERTONES 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



"The new edition contains new work, and the new work has a value ot 
its own. Not only have little touches of warmth and colour been laid on 
the canvas in many places, perfecting the verse rather than changing it; 
but one noble and beautiful poem has been added to the ' Undertones. 
This new poem is called the ' Syren.' It tells the story of a life with weird 
and wondrous power. . . . Shall we attempt to moralise the tale ? In 
such a poem imagination is put to some ol its highest uses. It is a rare 
expression of the poet's wealth that a poem so full of genius should have 
been flung, all but unnoticed, into a new edition." — Atinnu-um. 

" Great intelligence, fine workmanship, and dramatic power almost 
unequalled in tiiis half century." — Illustrated Times, 



Enlarged Edition, crown 8z>0. price 6s. 

IDYLS AND LEGENDS 
OF INVERBURN. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



" One of the most charming volumes of poetic narrative that we know." 
— Pall Mall Gazette. 

" How sweet and rare is such music ! We can but urge our readers to 
get this volume for themselves. All these pictures of Scottish life are full 
of the splendour of a rich imagination ; but ' Willie Baird ' is too sweetly 
sad for such poor praise as we can give it." — John Bull. 



In preparation. 

A 

SELECTION FROM THE 
POETICAL WORKS 

OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



STRAHAN & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL. 



To be published immediately, crown 8vo. 

BALLADS OF LIFE, 



ETC. 



By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



Also, Cheap Edition, crown 8vo. 

MEG BLANE; 

AND OTHER TALES IN VERSE. 
By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



STRAHAN & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL. 



TO 



SEQUEL TO THE "BOOK OF ORM." 



In preparation. 

AN EPIC POEM. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



STRAHAN & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL. 



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